Tug, monsters, at the badgered meat

out of whose needs yourselves were born;

into the east you tug the morn

whose victory is your defeat;

drink, thirsty swords, the central star—

your cup of blood; your kiss of steel

shall blaze the rising orb afar

of which you twinkle in the wheel;

and every drop that thence is wrung

its parent circle shall repeat;

a gem of humming rays, be hung

like dew the rising god to greet,

to turn the ancient valleys young

and bathe His westward-wending feet.