1. The dark-clad fate approached, whose youthful look
Was tinted by the dye of blossoming age.

2. In it sharp spears with filed points that hook,
That make blood gurgle but no wounds assuage.

3. From every dread opponent, if he came
Unto its saddlecloth, it whispered and made known,

4. While it spoke not, what should his mind inflame.
White were the hands within its muzzle's blackness shown

5. As though the prizes were apportioned therefrom.
It moves encumbered, dreading its keen blade,

6. The polished cutting sword, the well-whetted glaive,
To those who fall behind the goal it made.

7. It disciplines them if they fail, by striking off
Their heads, if their endeavor falls short of what it traced.