(a trifle)

Let all the things that token me for death
Be gleamed in You. My sweat, my breath,
All tired quakings of my flesh,
Make them a new arithmetic
In which surplus of beauty spills
From what should outcome negative;
And always answer me, when I have asked
Some vulture query, with an eagle’s cry.
Let glory leap around me like a fox
Leaps round the body of its prey,
Like asterflowers hanging from the cage
Of Michael, golden Michael, that last day.