Our Sunday morning when dawn-priests were applying br Wafer and wine to the human wound, we laid br Ourselves to cure ourselves down: I'm afriad br Our vestments wanted, but Francis' friends were crying br In the nave of pines, sun-satisfied, and flying br Subtle as angels about the barricade br Boughs made over us, deep in a bed half made br Needle-soft, half the sea of our simultaneous dying. br br 'Death is the mother of beauty.' Awry no leaf br Shivering with delight, we die to be well.. br Careless with sleepy love, so long unloving. br What if our convalescence must be bried br As we are, the matin meet the passing bell?.. br About our pines our sister, wind, is moving.