  Come, blunt your spear with us, our pace is hot and our bare heels in the heel-prints— we stand tense—do you see— are you already beaten by the chase? We lead the pace for the wind on the hills, the low hill is spattered with loose earth— our feet cut into the crust as with spears. We climbed the ploughed land, dragged the seed from the clefts, broke the clods with our heels, whirled with a parched cry into the woods: Can you come, can you come, can you follow the hound trail, can you trample the hot froth? Spring up—sway forward— follow the quickest one, aye, though you leave the trail and drop exhausted at our feet. |
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