Page:The green helmet and other poems.pdf/102

 Wail, but keep from the road. [He kneels before. There is a pause] Quick to your work, old Radish, you will fade when the cocks have crowed. [A black cat-headed Man ''holds out the Helmet. The takes it'']

I have not come for your hurt, I'm the Rector of this land. And with my spitting cat-heads, my frenzied moon-bred band, Age after age I sift it, and choose for its championship The man who hits my fancy. [He places the Helmet on head]