If, in an odd angle of the hutment,
A puppy laps the water from a
Of flowers, and the drunk sergeant
Whistles O Paradiso!—shall I say that
Is not as men have said: a wolf to man?
The other murderers troop in yawning;
Three of them play Pitch, one sleeps, and
Lies counting missions, lies there
Till even his heart beats:
One;
One;
One.
O murderers! . . .
Still, this is how it's done:
This is a war . . .
But since these play, before they die,
Like puppies with their puppy; since, a man,
I did as these have done, but did not die—I will content the people as I
And give up these to them:
Behold the man!
I have suffered, in a dream, because of him,
Many things; for this last saviour, man,
I have lied as I lie now. But what is lying?
Men wash their hands, in blood, as best they can:
I find no fault in this just man.
