D. One, as he crieth, is sitting half bent; What holds he so close?--his body is rent. Another is mouthless, with eyes on cheek; Unto the raven he may not speak. One would fain kill him; and one half round The place where he writhes, hath up beaten the ground. Like a mad horse hath he beaten the ground, And the feathers and music that litter it round, The gore, and the mud, and the golden sound. Come hither, ye cities! ye ball-rooms, take breath! See what a floor hath the dance of death! The floor is alive, though the lights are out; What are those dark shapes, flitting about? Flitting about, yet no ravens they, Not foes, yet not friends--mute creatures of prey; Their prey is lucre, their claws a knife, Some say they take the beseeching life. Horrible pity is theirs for despair, And they the love-sacred limbs leave bare. Love will cometo-morrow, and sadness, Patient for the
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