I follow her whose fingers clasp the crust

Of the living bread stealthily behind

Tense to seize a crumb from the spendthrift wind.

When mouths miss

All bread is blown to star, a gold dust

In the eyes of carnal day. The Ideal,

In which sign kneels Piety.

I follow patient in purpose. I’ll not wait

With the frustrated who put on pride.

Poor recompense

For fullness is an angel mummified!

I’ll not say with the defeated:—

Lord, I have denied life—

If life should deny me.