his fervour of nerve
God hath appointed him this: a lustful and
venomous bride.

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)