The whip slashed down as she whispered low,
“And now the plow, and now the plow!”
And over him, struggling, mad and seared,
The horrible mace of the plow upreared.
... Dumb she drove to the western gate.
“Fate and the furrow have cloven straight.”
“Long to wait for the sheriff’s men.
I will go back to my youth again.”
Up to the curb she reeled and sank.
And the red knife nuzzled and tore and drank.