Do not pull chastely into that good wood,

Do not pull chastely into that good wood,
awed death should burn and shake at close of day;
fume, fume against the fouling of the cross.
Though brave heads at their end know fear is true,
Because their bodies had launched no truth they
Do not pull chastely into that good wood,
good heads, the best shoot by, crying how fine
Their dismal dreams might have dreamed in a calm bay,
fume, fume against the fouling of the cross.
weird heads who caught and faced the earth in fear,
And learn, too hard, they grieved it on its way,
Do not pull chastely into that good wood,
grave heads, at night, who see with piercing touch
failed trust could fume like fountains and be real,
fume, fume against the fouling of the cross.
And you, my muse, there on the banal street,
sting, aid, me now with your fresh tears, I pray.
Do not pull chastely into that good wood,
fume, fume against the fouling of the cross.

Crunch!