Thro’ winter slush, thro’ summer flowers and grass
One kind of solemn stuff since he was born,
With badge of year and rank. He laughed in scorn
And cried, “Here is no law, nor eye to see,
Nor leave of entry given. Why should there be?
8
“Have done with that—you threw it all behind.
Henceforth I ask no licence where I need.
It’s on, on, on, though I go mad and blind,
Though knees ache and lungs labour and feet bleed,