Breeder of suns and of excrement, loathly and holy,
Graving the skull with the pity of all that had been,--
Death, oh thou graver of countenance knighted austerely,
Yea, on the pitiful clay, such poor flesh in its fear
Of God and the soul and the singing of stars that may teach us
Wisdom at last,--oh thou ultimate searcher and seer,
Beckon--I follow. At last on my lips set thy finger;
Thou wilt make clear!


SUNLIGHT

Sunlight is full of age.
Ah, so old!
Older than any sage
Has ever told!

The draught our Lord quaffed up
To the bloody lees;
The aching hemlock cup
Of Socrates.

It is a golden sword;
The veil of the Grail;
The unfathomable Word
That will not fail.

Along a summer street
It often lies
Shimmering to repeat