The sun purrs light of sweetest gall 
         and he kneels at our feet: 
that greatest looking-glass of all, 

whiffling the flow into our words 
         as swiftly the blows fall, 
flashes from a net of swords... 

Unblessed the quick, the gloomy flood 
         from his submissive breast, 
that fleeting bliss of lung and blood, 

into the flickering gold and silver yield 
         of the hawthorn and the grass, 
the frolic green that clothes the field 

where, fleeing the sword-edge, filling the cleft 
         his bewildered ghost untwins 
with swift outflowing waft unweft: 

following the quick sniffle of a fear 
         and the wet squeak of gore 
that frets the muffle of the shrinking ear... 

now drifting free beyond belief 
         we hear him and for ever 
in the faintest shuffle of a fallen leaf. 

(In order to elucidate the “action” the sub-title MORRIS SWORD DANCE should be added.)