The wrists like elk-thongs that turn
With the balancing, pausing, slender, murderous spear;
The swords that lead us along,
The thrust, the shriek and the song—
Sights not fit for their eyes, nor sounds for their ears to hear.
The city gates in the sun,
The glory of brave deeds done,
The clatter of horning hoofs and the song of old Kan-Mar,
The roar of the narrow street
Filled with clanging of feet—