The World’s Tragedy

68 THE WORLD’S TRAGEDY. Broke in my body to its lust. What ? Are ye done ? There is a distant chorus Of robust voices ; the earth heaves and pants As if the seven and seventy elephants Snow-white of Solomon made hither, marched On the black earth sun-parched Into the battle-front ; grave and sonorous, A clang of arms salutes these ears, that twitch To catch the zenith pitch Of aught that, human or divine, Might pour some drowsy wine, Poppy-heads bruised and seethed In milk of asses ivy-wreathed With honey and spice and wine moon-pale Strained though a virgin’s veil — To ease this itch. Enter a Roman Centurion and his guard. THE CENTURION Ha ! Publius, saidst thou : “ Jewish girls are chaste ” ? PUBLIUS Good — a barbarian Clodia Croup-in-air !