Such countenance the first rebellion bore
passed to my lot a roaming visitor
found his place mat and lodgings
an open prison of derelict lack
his eyes a ransom of age went by
duties done duties waiting unsatisfied
for mine own duty to comprehend
bow to conscience give to his need
what angel with wings shredded and worn
with powers mysterious in glaring mockery
had made me human acquiesce to protest
standing at attention to this angel
unwilling for one moment for his retreat
for hell would bring a vacuum of my own deed.
