On almost the incendiary eve Of several near deaths,
When one at the great least of your best loved And always known must
Lions and fires of his flying breath, Of your immortal
Who'd raise the organs of the counted dust To shoot and sing your praise,
One who called deepest down shall hold his peace That cannot sink or cease Endlessly to his
In many married London's estranging grief.
On almost the incendiary eve When at your lips and keys,
Locking, unlocking, the murdered strangers weave, One who is most unknown,
Your polestar neighbour, sun of another street, Will dive up to his tears.
He'll bathe his raining blood in the male sea Who strode for your own
And wind his globe out of your water thread And load the throats of shells with every cry since
Flashed first across his thunderclapping eyes.
On almost the incendiary eve Of deaths and entrances,
When near and strange wounded on London's waves Have sought your single grave,
One enemy, of many, who knows well Your heart is
In the watched dark, quivering through locks and caves, Will pull the
To shut the sun, plunge, mount your darkened keys And sear just riders back, Until that one loved
Looms the last Samson of your zodiac.
