Some who dream a freer mirth
Upon a warm, less tilted earth
Can sigh for ghosts, a crystal soul,
The puzzled parts of a greater whole.
Some sing the scarlet songs of loss
Beneath a raised and flowered cross
That stretch to praise the Vanished Word
In verse unfinished, hymns unheard.
And meanwhile, harlot hymns abound
To waste their words in packaged sound
While th’ honest, broken buyer screams
For weaker kings of prouder dreams.