⁠For we are what we are—
⁠So broke to blood
⁠And the strict works of war—
⁠So long subdued
To sacrifice, that threadbare Death commands
Hardly observance at our busier hands.


⁠Yet we were what we were,
⁠And, fashioned so,
⁠It pleases us to stare
⁠At the far show
Of unbelievable years and shapes that flit,
In our own likeness, on the edge of it.