Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly pack, Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!

Oh some I know! I have embalmed the days, Even the sacred moments when we played, All innocent of passion, uncorrupt, At noon and evening in the flame-heart's …

And, hungry for the old, familiar ways, I turned aside and bowed my head and wept.

I have forgotten much, but still remember The poinsiana's red, blood-red in warm December.