The Silver Age
At the corner, his head gentle over The swelling breastplate, where his home is found.
His heart would break to tell you it is lost.
All he can do is guide you through the moonlight.
When he moves, mark how his eager striding To which we know the darkness is a river Dragging, is easy as on level ground, We know it is a river never crossed By any but some few who hate the moonlight.
And when he speaks, mark how his ancient wording Is hard with indignation of a lover.
'I do not think our new Emperor likes the sound Of turning squadrons or the last post.
Consorts with Christians, I think he lives in moonlight.'
Hurrying to show you his companions guarding, He grips your arm like a cold strap of leather, Then halts, earth pale, as he stares round and round. What made this one fragment of a sunken coast Remain, far out, to be beaten by the moonlight?
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