Sir Thomas, stark green until he crept acurl
into the bed of marriage, put ripeness on
in the soft white embraces of a girl,

These are the houses of the poor—
Strange animals ... they live in view...
That woman on the second floor,

Much time is gone, I speak of parting fire
Like realms of sunset in the mist of trees.
Because you know affection not desire

      The scree in the crevasse
              thaws an impasse
      for all but what descends

My absent God does not disown
That timeless joy He lives alone;
He does not seek as once his own.

I looked for rest, though without love.
Since I had found a course to run
Deep as a river in its groove

Chased down, and baited for the kill,
  And naked to men’s eyes,
I struggled blindly a great while

Helmet and rifle, pack and overcoat,
Marched through a forest.   Somewhere up ahead
Guns thudded.   Like the circle of a throat

The restless pass the night hours in company
  forever about in the town; though many
  at half past three admit to being lonely.

On the hottest day of the year I rode the mail
To Waterloo Strand and Seaside Macedon
Where, tanned like Egyptians in their Louis-Quatorze