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

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

I know the dark delight of being strange, The penalty of difference in the crowd, The loneliness of wisdom among fools.

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 …