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Poem	I saw the sun step like a gentleman Dressed in black and proud as sin. I saw the sun walk across London Like a young M. P., risen to the occasion. His step was light, his tread was dancing, His lips were smiling, his eyes glancing. Over the Cenotaph in Whitehall The sun took the wicket with my skull. The sun plays tennis in the court of Geneva With the guts of a Finn and the head of an Emperor. The sun plays squash in a tomb of marble, The horses of Apocalypse are in his stable. The sun plays a game of darts in Spain Three by three in flight formation. The invincible wheels of his yellow car Are the discs that kindle the Chinese war. The sun shows the world to the world, Turns its own ghost on the terrified crowd, Then plunges all images into the ocean Of the nightly mass emotion. Games of chance and games of skill, All his sports are games to kill. I saw the murderer at evening lie Bleeding on his death-bed sky. His hyacinth breath, his laurel hair, His blinding sight, his moving air, My love, my grief, my weariness, my fears Hid from me in a night of tears.
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