You're absent on the morning I depart
To Mystery more distant than all tides,
A straight inevitable line to chart,
The graveyard path so slick beneath your strides.
You're absent on the morning on the beach,
That silent realm and lonely sea of shade;
I, mournful bird, through farthest clouds will breach;
You, captive in white pantheon, will fade.
In time, sweet time, night will dispel your glance,
In time you will both suffer and receive
The soft white wounds of penitence and chance;
And absent as you choose your agony,
Remorse in wildest pack will then perceive
The weeping bronze in your Gethsemane.