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How he followed with them, and tacked with them—
and would not give it up,
How he saved the drifting company at last,
How the lank loose-gowned women looked when
boated from the side of their prepared graves,
How the silent old-faced infants, and the lifted sick,
and the sharp-lipped unshaved men,
All this I swallow—it tastes good—I like it well—
it becomes mine,
I am the man—I suffered—I was there.

212.The disdain and calmness of martyrs,
The mother, condemned for a witch, burnt with dry
wood, her children gazing on,
The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the
the fence, blowing, covered with sweat,
The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck
—the murderous buck-shot and the bullets,
All these I feel or am.

213.I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the
dogs,
Hell and despair are upon me, crack and again crack
the marksmen,
I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs, thinned
with the ooze of my skin,
I fall on the weeds and stones,
The riders spur their unmlling horses, haul close,
Taunt my dizzy ears, and beat me violently over the
head with whip-stocks.

214.Agonies are one of my changes of garments,
I do not ask the wounded person how he feels—I
myself become the wounded person,