Their day was eloquent: morning was the spun
blue savagery of wind, and noon the call
of trumpeters to lions.  Triumph undone,
warm in the ebb of bee-light was begun
their dying: colour of autumn; the grey scrawl
of ash-of-apricot upon the wall,
that names us weighed and finds us wanting.  Seal
their sunlight on our dark, you who appal
our closing landscape - moon, their mirror of steel,
oh face of Lazarus, look down and heal.

They died among their jewelled evening: none
to hear their anger, feel or hear at all
the honey and lions'-mating of their sun
grow sour and impotent.  But one by one
the alien lesser stars dare and grow tall - 
night's peacock, light of the gnat's voice.  In our hall
of kneeling shadows, give us grace to kneel
self-shadowed.  Angel or eagle or animal,
moon, from the wasting of your cherub wheel,
oh face of Lazarus, look down and heal.

Not in this nightyear may their cataract stun
with honey of wrath of thunder and carnival
by golden milk.  But we, the million
trillings of little silver, glitter and run
and whimper through the dark: we are the small
vibrations of dead music, we must crawl
through strings we cannot sound.  You who repeal
the deaths of suns - you their memorial - 
even such waking Lemures you anele:
oh face of Lazarus, look down and heal.

Fierce blazon upon earth, armorial
colours we cannot fire - we stoop and reel
under the sea-weight of their weapons; fall
by theft of honour.  Moon whose moons we steal - 
oh face of Lazarus - look down and heal.