Let the boy try along this bayonet-blade How cold steel is, and keen with hunger of blood； Blue with all malice¹, like a madman's flash； And thinly drawn² with famishing for flesh.

    Lend him to stroke these blind, blunt bullet-heads Which long to muzzle³ in the hearts of lads. Or give him cartridges⁴ of fine zinc⁵ teeth, Sharp with the sharpness of grief and death.

    For his teeth seem for laughing round an apple. There lurk⁶ no claws behind his fingers supple⁷； And God will grow no talons⁸ at his heels, Nor antlers through the thickness of his curls.