Asleep, perfected, you would never believe

Harm of a one of them. That stirring hand,

That leg, might clasp, endear, be brought across

An enemy, as gently as a wife.

How God must grieve,

Watching in all this shadow land

The flinching vigil candles of this countless loss

In night’s nave each a life:

Who groans, smiles, murmurs, quiets; then on the horn

Transpierced, assembles upward, and reborn,

By all that skill and bravery crowns him with

Works, while he wakes, to put himself to death.