Tombstone
When I die, don't let go of my horse
on the stones of my burning Pasture:
strike his vaunted back,
with the golden spur, until he killed him.
One of my sons must ride it
in a greenish leather saddle,
that drags across the stony and brown ground
Copper plates, bells and clappers.
Thus, with the Thunderbolt and the struck copper,
trampling of hooves, blood of the Brown,
perhaps the sound of molten gold is pretended
that, in vain – Senseless and vagabond blood –
I tried to forge, in my strange Singing,
to the complexion of my Beast and the Sun of the World!
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