[8]

Some drunk with the wine of carnage,

Some clothed with the shreds of power,

Some stark from the fields of famine,

Some decked for the pleasaunce bower,

And all with their still clay fingers

To their cold clay bosoms laid

To sleep from æon to æon

At the lowly Sign of the Spade.

Afar through the quickening ages

Fell the first keen notes of strife,

And they held out their hands in the darkness

Toward that blatant boon called life;

And they heard the building of empires,

And the restless trampling of men,

And the dust that was made for heartbreak

Grew poignant even then.

Your bones they are moist with marrow,

And with milk your breasts are full;

Your hands they are strong and subtle,

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