The man of blood, whose eyes are asphodels,
knows, in the flood of earth, neither remorse
nor exultation.  He is drowned in hills;
the widow's hands are warming at his hearse.
His, living, are raised like a star of bone
towards life; and the skull prays between them,

whose paean, sung on tombs, tells the deception
of symbols, blood to engender, flesh to paint;
the bright ship of power, riding corruption.
The man takes nothing; moments are imminent
as water, and the embattled instant is
the branch of olive - the bird that flies back.