written by Walter de la Mare
Butchers are honest though their agile knives
They wield with an engrossed dexterity.
To smile with natural hatred like a dog,
Dull, fretful, thirsty ; — this is to be he
Who may unheated lave in burning blood
Hands white and large with idleness and sleep.
He is earth's hero— this plain, bloated Casca.
He glides like a great woman; while a hare
Squats in his shaggy breast, and stares, and trembles
If peeps the lightning in. So, let him pass;
His bloody hands his chosen orators.
There is much pig's flesh in a world of swine,
White as the lily.
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