As though men's bees were swarming, not men hanged.
Now certain Justice with the pitiless knife.
The white sick chaplain snuffling at the nose.
'I am the resurrection and the life.'
The bell still clangs, the small procession goes,
The prison warders ready ranged in rows.
'Now, Gurney, come, my dear; it's time,' they said.
And ninety seconds later he was dead.
Some of life's sad ones are too strong to die,
Grief doesn't kill them as it kills the weak,