A man that had six mortal wounds, a man Violent
and famous, strode among the dead; Eyes
stared out of the branches and were gone. Then
certain Shrouds that muttered head to head Came
and were gone. He leant upon a tree As
though to meditate on wounds and blood. A
Shroud that seemed to have authority Among
those bird-like things came, and let fall A
bundle of linen. Shrouds by two and three Came
creeping up because the man was still. And
thereupon that linen-carrier said: “Your
life can grow much sweeter if you will Obey
our ancient rule and make a shroud; Mainly
because of what we only know The
rattle of those arms makes us afraid. “We
thread the needles” eyes, and all we do All
must together do.' That done, the man Took
up the nearest and began to sew. “Now
we shall sing and sing the best we can, But
first you must be told our character: Convicted
cowards all, by kindred slain “Or
driven from home and left to die in fear.” They
sang, but had nor human tunes nor words, Though
all was done in common as before, They had changed their throats and had the throats of birds. |
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