。，Whence in waves her hair outrolled,
Nostrils quickened eyelids, eyelids hand:。，Sunless light, but light it was -
The horn of the Old Gentleman!。，Attila, my Attila!
Light that blinded and abashed,。，Rome! the word was: and like meat
Secret, lustrous; flaglike there,。，As the southern summer fig!
Secret, lustrous; flaglike there,。，Smoking war's the warrior's wife!
Sword in length a reaping-hook amain。，
XIII。，She but one flower of a field.
Of a dreadful fire within.。，Burst the ridges, crowd the barriers,
Fear of silence made them strive。，Sign for carnage gave he none.
Colours of his hordes of horse。，But the battle, swinging dim,
。，Bleed: 'tis he! Beneath his foot
Eye and have, my Attila!。，Smell of brine his nostrils filled with might:
Faced to the moon. Insane they look.。，Hammering West with print of his hoof,
。，Whereof Two that shone distinct,
。，Belike on a passing bier.
Down these hillmen pour like cattle。，XX
，He chuckled, he sobbed, alow, aloud;。，Attila, my Attila!