Clouds against air of gold
the symbols freeze and glance:
his tender limbs uphold
the banner on the lance.
There blood and silver lie
as flames within the flame
of one tall eastern eye,
the morning of the Lamb.

By soil and ash of light
he summons and prevails:
despair is in his bite,
shame in his onyx nails.
Roots of all risen trees
go down into his power:
no image but it frees
the Dog and his dark hour.

Through the furtive heat of grass
or patency of snow
his vestiges will pass,
his dangerous midnights glow.
Colder than wells they burn,
beyond all amnesties;
relinquish and return:
the Tiger's ruining eyes.

Times of the heart and will
bring each their avatars:
beasts of the field, that still
are our familiars.
Whatever forms descent,
landscape and god are one;
our victim is our end
and our companion.

He spare that threatens most:
the Tiger walks unfed;
when evening nets the ghost,
the Dog is not for dread.
Safe on the golden field
their dances break and flame;
their wounds are never healed:
the sharp feet of the Lamb.