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 shade.

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

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

Deep in the secret chambers of my heart I muse my life-long hate, and without flinch I bear it nobly as I live my part.