POETRY: PATRICK MURTHA the remnants of chivalry Your eyes meet mine. They make me no relief. My pains increase-and yet, for you alone I'll ever be the fettered fire-thief If you will gaze forever on my grief. Like loaves and fishes gathered from the feast, They lie, within the myths and legends, cold. They lie while those who cared most, care the least And scoff with scorn and say, "So lie the bold!" Scarred from the battles fought for honor's rights, A lady's kiss-ah! for the glance alone! Now, cased in rust and 113