Too proud to die, broken and blind he died
The darkest way, and did not turn away,
A cold, kind man brave in his burning pride
On that darkest day. Oh, forever may
He live lightly, at last, on the last, crossed
Hill and there grow young, under the grass, in love,
Among the long flocks, and never lie lost
Or still all the days of his death, though above
All he longed all dark for his mother’s breast
Which was rest and dust, and in the kind ground
The darkest justice of death, blind and unblessed.
Let him find no rest but be fathered and found,
I prayed in the crouching room, by his blind bed,
In the muted house, one minute before
Noon, and night, and light. The rivers of the dead
Moved in his poor hand I held, and I saw
Through his faded eyes to the roots of the sea.
Go calm to your crucifixed hill, I told
The air that drew away from him.
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