The Distant Fury Of Battle

Grass resurrects to mask, to strangle,

Words glossed on stone, lopped stone-angel;

But the dead maintain their ground --

That there's no getting round --

Who in places vitally rest,

Named, anonymous; who test

Alike the endurance of yews

Laurels, moonshine, stone, all tissues;

With whom, under license and duress,

There are pacts made, if not peace.

Union with the stone-wearing dead

Claims the born leader, the prepared

Leader, the devourers and all lean men.

Some, finally, learn to begin.

Some keep to the arrangement of love

(Or similar trust) under whose auspices move

Most subjects, toward the profits of this

Combine of doves and witnesses.

Some, dug out of hot-beds, are brought bare,

Not past conceiving but past care.