Cambridge Poets 1900–1913

Martin D . Armstrong . Through all my pulsing veins . So had I died In slavery . But last year he rode away To court , in Paris ; and the self - same day , When noon had mellowed into eventide , A thought leapt in my brain , and I took down A rusty axe and ground it on the wheel , And shaped the edge until the sharpened steel Shone like a minnow . Then I climbed the crown Of that broad slope , where girt with massy oaks His hall looks out upon the timbered lands , And heaving up the weapon in my hands Hewed at a bole . Birds scattered at the strokes . Oh , it was good to feel the singing axe Bite deep and deeper ; good to feel the sting Nettle my palms ; to see at every swing Wedges of living wood fly, as the hacks Clove through its toughness . It was good to use My muscles for my pleasure ; make my strength Obey my will . Now first through all the length Of labouring years I felt delight suffuse My glowing limbs . The sunset waxed apace Till all the tree - trunks ranged along the hill Stood black against the splendour , like the grille Before a torture chamber ; and my face