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