Flame’s outrage, devouring it with his goods;
Beasts’, tearing it to pieces in the woods.
His proud profession that he does not care
For his body’s plight—He will not be there—
Rings false; he keeps, secreted in his heart,
A nerve which aches, though flesh and feeling part.
Not will self be root and branch so wrenched out
As that some still shall not be left about;
For why contemplate else at all the lot
Of the dead flesh he says concerns him not,