(a trifle)

Our quiet words
They make our faces quiet too.
It takes a golden cheek
And leopard-tendoned jaws
To womb the syllables
Of sea and strength
Uttered by heroes
Beside the hollow ships.

Our slackness of belief
Will slowly shape or rather more undo
The shape of man impressed upon our face
Until our tongues rebel to lift
Themselves around the air,
And all our countenance will be
A whimper, yawn, a gasp,
And drool coagulate where once
Words wingéd sped them forth
Like huntsman clad in sky,
And shod in dawn’s own cleats
To fess the harmless world,
And scare the monster from his brake.