He cut the straps, and pushed within
His murderous fingers to their theft.
A deathly sweat came o’er his brow,
He had no sense nor meaning left.
He touched not gold, it was not cold,
It was not hard, it felt like flesh.
He drew out by the curling hair
A young man’s head, and murder’d fresh;
A young man’s head, cut by the neck.
But what was dreader still to see,