"TIME WILL NOT OPEN HIS CLENCHED HAND..."

Time will not open his clenched hand;
there are green shields before the sun;
over the king and the king's hound
the everlasting sand is sown.
Gods that were falcons, and gods horned,
stir in the mighty loin of rock:
time will not open his clenched hand
- their wings dry, their wands break.
So in a brooding night of gold
lie wills unborn, and buried will,
and we - their sole immortal child
(time will not open his clenched hand)
- not dead, but in a life more still,
spent arrows, in desired land.