You, too, shall scorch your finger-tips,
With scrabbling on the desert's face
Such thoughts I had for this green place,
Sent scapegoat for your pride.
Now for your cold, malicious brain
And most uncharitable, cold heart,
You, too, shall clank the seven years' chain
On sterile ground for all time curst
With famine's itch and flames of thirst,
The blank sky's counterpart.