They trample flowers, they trample the dew.
With honest,
Christ-resurrecting eyes
They weave poems.
But in their beauty you never sense
The sun.
The kingdom.
The black-browed day has died.
To the singing of blood – without songs –
O knights of a mad knighthood.
Be damned to dung!
– Rose-like!
– Youthful!
– Strife!
1917