What things shall be said of you, Terrible beauty in armor? Dance that is not a dance, Brief instant of welded swords. For a moment we strike the black Door with a fist of brightness. And then it is over and spent, And we sink back into life.

Back to the known, the sure, The river of sleep and waking, The dreams floating the river, The nearness, the conquered peace. You have come and smitten and passed, Poniard, poniard of sharpness. The child sleeps in the planet. The blood sleeps again.