18 WILLIAM ROSE BENiJT
They are blinded with long sleep,
But men with clever weapons
Goad them to fresh pastures.
Beside still waters
They drink of blood and neigh a horrible laughter,
And their ponderous tread shakes happy cities
down, And the thresh of their flail-like tails Makes acres smoulder and smoke Blackened of golden harvest.
The Beasts are back,
And men, in their spreading shadow.
Inhale the odor of their nauseous breath.
Inebriate with it they fashion other gods
Than the gods of day-dream.
Of iron and steel are little images
Made of the Beasts.
And men rush forth and fling themselves for ritual
Before these gods, before the lumbering Beasts, —
And some make long obeisance.
Umber and violet flowers of the sky,
The sun, like a blazing Mars, clanks across the
blue And plucks you, to fashion into a nosegay To offer Venus, his old-time paramour. But now she shrinks
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