Chapter 1 No.1

The trumpets of the four winds of the world

From the ends of the earth blow battle; the night heaves,

With breasts palpitating and wings refurled,

With passion of couched limbs, as one who grieves

Sleeping, and in her sleep she sees uncurled

Dreams serpent-shapen, such as sickness weaves,

Down the wild wind of vision caught and whirled,

Dead leaves of sleep, thicker than autumn leaves,

Shadows of storm-shaped things,

Flights of dim tribes of kings,

The reaping men that reap men for their sheaves,

And, without grain to yield,

Their scythe-swept harvest-field

Thronged thick with men pursuing and fugitives,

Dead foliage of the tree of sleep,

Leaves blood-coloured and golden, blown from deep to deep.