Chapter 8 No.8

I set the trumpet to my lips and blow.

The night is broken northward; the pale plains

And footless fields of sun-forgotten snow

Feel through their creviced lips and iron veins

Such quick breath labour and such clean blood flow

As summer-stricken spring feels in her pains

When dying May bears June, too young to know

The fruit that waxes from the flower that wanes;

Strange tyrannies and vast,

Tribes frost-bound to their past,

Lands that are loud all through their length with chains,

Wastes where the wind's wings break,

Displumed by daylong ache

And anguish of blind snows and rack-blown rains,

And ice that seals the White Sea's lips,

Whose monstrous weights crush flat the sides of shrieking ships;