The caesar of the world cast his crown
into the heavens' flood,
thinking the fiery spaces watched his toy
and saw it drown.
But the seventh heaven would be God:
the perfect hour looks for infinity:
into a hope beyond their spheres
looked upward, stars.

There is an image in the death of trees:
men creep into their bone;
and the birds sing, because ambitions fail,
in their dead boughs.
Our living is a shell between
the crooked beggar and the nightingale;
and caesar into circling waves
cast eyes, not leaves.