Up from the fret of the earth-world, through the Seven Circles of Flame, With the seven holes in Its tunic for sign of the death-in-shame, To the little gate of Valhalla the coward-spirit came. Cold, It crouched in the man-strong wind that sweeps Valhalla’s floor; Weak, It pawed and scratched on the wood; and howled, like a dog, at the Door Which is shut to the souls who are sped in shame, for ever and evermore: For It snuffed the Meat of the Banquet-boards where the Threefold Killers sit, Where the Free Beer foams to the tankard-rim, and the Endless Smokes are lit.... And It saw the NakÉd Eye come out above the lintel-slit. And now It quailed at NakÉd Eye which judges the naked dead; And now It snarled at NakÉd Truth that broodeth overhead; And now It looked to the earth below where the gun-flames flickered red. It muttered words It had learned on earth, the words of a black-coat priest Who had bade It pray to a pulpit god—but ever Eye’s Wrath increased; And It knew that Its words were empty words, and It whined like a homeless beast: Till, black above the lintel-slit, the NakÉd Eye went out; Till, loud across the Killer-Feasts, It heard the Killer-Shout— The three-fold song of them that slew, and died ... and had no doubt. |