Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/57

 The small swathed child, but bred him for my fate. I would I had been the first that took her death Out from between wet hoofs and reddened teeth, Splashed horns, fierce fetlocks of the brother bull! For now shall I take death a deadlier way, Gathering it up between the feet of love Or off the knees of murder reaching it.