Classic Poem

Rich and fat was the altar feast
For the holy flame that day:
But there in the pool from the slain lamb's throat
A slender body lay,
While the Horror stiffened each lovely limb
And kissed the red lips gray.

Far over the desert a shadow flees
In the glare of the angry sun:
Is it man or ghost or hunted beast,
Or sand by the whirlwind spun,
And why does it run and look behind,
And look behind and run?

The yellow hair of the white boy-priest
Is damp with a ghastly dye:
Can he not raise those perfect hands
From his bosom where they lie,
And why does he stare at the noonday sun
With such a fearless eye?

He does not smile, he does not stir,
But still the shadow flees:
It cannot be that sound is born
On such wan lips as these,
Yet surely shadows never sobbed
In such strange agonies.

Across the desert of the world
Still stumbles in his pain
The Man who killed; and yet, which is
The slayer, which the slain,
The delicate-fingered Abel, or
The shamed and branded Cain?