A Cold Coming
If that strange patience could regenerate
In stark twilight, to an alien race,
What common Lord could the disloyal have?
No deadly forfeit, no dumb child-king,
No sudden chill of some sharp glory
Or the three-fold terror of love.
That deviant passion would fall hard
And cold, on a people
Like rain-beaten stones;
A son still-born to bestial kin
Who, too dead to demand a miracle,
Would not have it again.
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