An old tradition have laid on his bed.
Tired of word-making and world wrought to best,
He laid his head. "Let him there, let him rest.
I do not think (I hope not!) he is dead."
His blind eyes of Homer, his aureole,
Rest, too, beside his heart (let us wait, let
Her make our bed) and on his hands are set
His Roman staff of rule, his capital.
But now we wait to uncover her eyes,
To unconver her hair and hands and sighs,
To uncover what was unknonwn by light.
At night we'll know what was by light unknown.
At night we'll know if should we crave for dawn.
At night we'll wait. At night we'll wake. At night...