For whom the cold of exile was the only place
Where home was art's acropolis; now, passions stem
From fretted skin, the hollow landscape of his face.
Some prodigal son who scorned, from love, to claim
A fatted calf, but irrevocably estranged,
Strode lonely down the bright meridians of fame.
Limp hair, white spike of light that strikes the fervent lips
Which opened once to utter sung whisperings; now,
Harsh yearnings hurt wilfully and cold wind rips.
The bone-bright life of things that grows remote and dim,
A ring of Being, glinting like sunlit water,
Spurting through stoney clouds, outside, away from him.
Tumult of images, city roaring and blind.
Leaped wild through his head with a hard, choking wonder.
Stumbling to expression in dark streets of his mind.
Wet winds of fear, his death-face has its own life yet;
Some simple no music, birdsong, nor branches
Breaking with full flowers can equal, or we forget.