A man that had six mortal wounds, a man

Violent and famous, strode among the dead;

Eyes stared out of the branches and were gone.

Then certain Shrouds that muttered head to head

Came and were gone. He leant upon a tree

As though to meditate on wounds and blood.

A Shroud that seemed to have authority

Among those bird-like things came, and let fall

A bundle of linen. Shrouds by two and thrce

Came creeping up because the man was still.

And thereupon that linen-carrier said:

“Your life can grow much sweeter if you will

Obey our ancient rule and make a shroud;

Mainly because of what we only know

The rattle of those arms makes us afraid.

We thread the needles’ eyes, and all we do

All must together do.” That done, the man

Took up the nearest and began to sew.

“Now must we sing and sing the best we can,

But first you must be told our character:

Convicted cowards all, by kindred slain

Or driven from home and left to dic in fear.”

They sang, but had nor human tunes nor words,

Though all was done in common as before;

They had changed their thtoats and had the throats of birds.