D. One, as he crieth, is sitting half bent; What holds he so close?--his
body is rent. Another is mouthless, with eyes on cheek; Unto the raven
he may not speak. One would fain kill him; and one half round The place
where he writhes, hath up beaten the ground. Like a mad horse hath he
beaten the ground, And the feathers and music that litter it round, The
gore, and the mud, and the golden sound. Come hither, ye cities! ye
ball-rooms, take breath! See what a floor hath the dance of death! The
floor is alive, though the lights are out; What are those dark shapes,
flitting about? Flitting about, yet no ravens they, Not foes, yet not
friends--mute creatures of prey; Their prey is lucre, their claws a
knife, Some say they take the beseeching life. Horrible pity is theirs
for despair, And they the love-sacred limbs leave bare. Love will come
to-morrow, and sadness, Patient for the