" So, force
is sorrow,
and
each
sorrow,
force
:
What then ? since
Swiftness
gives
the charioteer
The palm,
his hope
be in the vivid horse
Whose neck God clothed with thunder, not the steer
Sluggish and
safe !
Yoke Hatred, Crime, Remorse,
Despair : but ever mind the whirling fear.
Let, through the tumult,
break the poet's
face
Radiant, assured
his wild slaves
win the race ! "
Two Poets of Croisic.