A strong man pacing over burning sands,
Having no armour, only hard, bare, hands
To hold with and to slay with—Woe betide
If thou shalt meet him in the city! Woe!
If in the fields, or where the salt waves are.
For there be none so strong to lay him low,
And he is swifter than all souls that hide
From him in deserts barren and afar.—
They find no respite—Coming softly shod,
He smites them down, and flees and leaves them there
Unpitied of the people, while with eyes
Hand shaded, turn they on the country bare,
Tracing with wonder and a sad surprise
The golden cloud that hides a fleeting god.