What things shall be said of you, Terrible beauty in armor? What things shall be said of you, Horses riding the sky? The fleetness, the molten speed, The rhythm rising like beaten Drums of barbaric gold Until fire mixes with fire?

The night is a sparkling pit Where Time no longer has power But only vast cadence surging Toward an instant of tiny death. Then, with the slow withdrawal Of seas from a rock of moonlight, The clasping bodies unlock And the lovers have little words.