Never supine lie they, the steeds of our folk,
to the sting,
Praying for deadness of nerve, their wounds
the shame of the sun;
They strive, but they strive for this: the fullness
of passionate nerve;
They pant, but they pant for this: the speed
that outstrips the pain.
Sons of the dust, ye have stung: there is
darkness upon my soul.
Sons of the dust, ye have stung: yea, stung
to the roots of my heart.
But I have said in my breast: the birth
succeeds to the pang,
And sons of the dust, behold, your malice
becomes my song.
* * * * *
SHANE LESLIE
_A DEAD FRIEND_ (_J.S._, 1905)
I drew him then unto my knee, my friend who
was dead,
And I set my live lips over his, and my heart
by his head.
I thought of an unrippled love and a passion
unsaid,
And the years he was living by me, my friend
who was dead;
And the white morning ways that we went,
and how oft we had fed
And drunk with the sunset for lamp--my friend
who was dead;
Now never the draught at my lips would thrill
to my head--
For the last vintage ebbed in my heart; my
friend he was dead.
Then I spake unto God in my grief: My wine
and my bread
And my staff Thou hast taken from me--my
friend who is dead.
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