His helmet now shall make a hive for bees, And lovers’ songs be turned to holy psalms; A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees, And feed on prayers, which are old age’s alms.
Even the blackest of them all, the crow, Renders good service as your man-at-arms, Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail. And crying havoc on the slug and snail.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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