The Twelve

There by some wrinkled stones round a leafless tree With beards askew, their eyes dull and wild Twelve ragged men, the council of charity Wandering the face of the earth a fatherless child, Kneel, at their infidelity aghast, For where was it, somewhere in Syria Or Palestine when the streams went red, The victor of Rome, his arms outspread, His eyes cold with his inhuman ecstasy, Cried the last word, the accursed last Of the forsaken that seared the western heart With the fire of the wind, the thick and the fast Whirl of the damned in the heavenly storm: Now the wind's empty and the twelve living dead Look round them for that promontory Form Whose mercy flashed from the sheet lightning's head; But the twelve lie in the sand by the dry rock Seeing nothing-he sand, the tree, rocks Without number-and turn away the face To the mind's briefer and more desert place.