He shudders — feeling on the shaven spot
The probing wind, that stabs him to a thought
Of storm-drenched fields in a white foam of light,
And roads of his hill-town that leap to sight
Like threads of tortured silver ... while the guards —
Monstrous deft dolls that move as on a string,
In wonted haste to finish with this thing,
Turn faces blanker than asphalted yards.

They heard the shriek that tore out of its sheath
But as a feeble moan ... yet dared not breathe,
Who stared there at him, arching — like a tree
When the winds wrench it and the earth holds tight —
Whose soul, expanding in white agony,
Had fused in flaming circuit with the night.