Take down the sword that hangs upon the wall,

And take the sword that stands beside the clock.

Light candles in the seven-branched old stick,

Put on this cloak, and let us act a play.

The play shall be a duel to be fought.

There on the floor the seven candle flames

Will seem a fire, and we shall think ourselves

Two hating men who cross our swords by night

In the wild flamelight in a woods alone.

Now play the play.

On guard! The quarrel is,

You killed my youngest brother on the road.

You hid in the forest, and I found you here,

Neither knowing the other's name at first,

Till talking found it out. I cursed you then

For a murderer, and doubly curse you now.

You say a girl you loved loved only him,

My brother dead. My brother.

Hear the swords clash!

Your cloak swirls in a cloud of blackness now

Back! Oh fight! It is your life you fight for here.

You slash my wrist, and the whole hand is wet -

Look, it is real, this wetness is my blood.

But - gone from my hand - my sword struck to the ground.

Would you kill me now, this way?

Ah - you have,

You have killed me; that was death, your sword

In my side was death then.

Cover me up.

Throw down the great black cloak across my blood,

Let the fire burn brighter now, and help me die.

No traveller this way tonight will guess,

Seeing the firelight through the trees far off,

That when that dies a life will burn out, too.

We played the play too well. It was a play.

Brother I never had; nor hate; the swords

Were only ornaments upon the wall.

This light is real, and what I dimly see

In your face, and what I have here in my side,

That is the most certain thing of all.