And the slow cows come home with evening bells Into the tired peace that’s good for pain. Those who are never tired of eating life Must immolate themselves against a star Sooner or late, as she turns crucified Now, on that flagellating wheel of light Which will not miss one revolution’s turn For any anguish we can bring to it, Because it is our master and our stone, Body of pain, body of sharpened fire, Body of quenchless life, itself, itself, That safety cannot buy or peddlers sell Or the rich cowards leave their silly sons. But, oh, She’s tired out, she’s broken, she’s athirst. Wrap her in twilights now, she is so torn, And mask again the cold, sweat-runnelled mask With the deep silence of a leafy wood So cool and dim its birds are all asleep And will not fret her. Wipe her straining hands With the soft, gleaming cobwebs April spins Out of bright silver tears and spider silk Till they are finer than the handkerchiefs Of a young, wild, spear-bearing fairy-queen.