On almost the incendiary eve

Of several near deaths，

When one at the great least of your best loved

And always known must leave

Lions and fires of his flying breath，

Of your immortal friends

Who'd raise the organs of the counted dust

To shoot and sing your praise，

One who called deepest down shall hold his peace

That cannot sink or cease

Endlessly to his wound

In many married London's estranging grief.

On almost the incendiary eve

When at your lips and keys，

Locking， unlocking， the murdered strangers weave，

One who is most unknown，

Your polestar neighbour， sun of another street，

Will dive up to his tears.

He'll bathe his raining blood in the male sea

Who strode for your own dead

And wind his globe out of your water thread

And load the throats of shells

with every cry since light

Flashed first across his thunderclapping eyes.

On almost the incendiary eve

Of deaths and entrances，

When near and strange wounded on London's waves

Have sought your single grave，

One enemy， of many， who knows well

Your heart is luminous

In the watched dark， quivering through locks and caves，

Will pull the thunderbolts

To shut the sun， plunge， mount your darkened keys

And sear just riders back，

Until that one loved least

Looms the last Samson of your zodiac.