lassie

Be tranquil in your wounds. It is good death
That puts an end to evil death and dies.
Be tranquil in your wounds. The placating star
Shall be the gentler for the death you die,
And the helpless philosophers say still helpful things.
Plato, the reddened flower, the erotic bird,
The lean cats of the arches of the churches,
That's the old world. In the new, all men are priests.

. . .

The lean cats of the arches of the churches
Bask in the sun in which they feel transparent,
As if designed by X, the per-noble master.
They have a sense of their design and savor
The sunlight. They bear brightly the little beyond
Themselves, the slightly unjust drawing that is
Their genius: the exquiste errors of time.