Bend back thy bow, O Archer, till the stringIs level with thine ear, thy body taut,Its nature art, thyself thy statue wroughtOf marble blood, thy weapon the poised wingOf coiled and aquiline Fate. Then, loosening, flingThe hissing arrow like a burning thoughtInto the empty sky that smokes as the hotShaft plunges to the bullseye's quenching ring.
So for a moment, motionless, serene,Fixed between time and time, I aim and wait;Nothing remains for the breath now but a waiveHis prior claim and let the barb fly cleanInto the heart of what I know and hate .-That central black, the ringed and targeted grave.
