On almost the incendiary eve

　　Of several near deaths，

　　When one at the great least of your best loved

　　And always known must leave

　　Lions and fires of his flying breath，

　　Of your immortal¹ friends

　　Who'd raise the organs of the counted dust

　　To shoot and sing your praise，

　　One who called deepest down shall hold his peace

　　That cannot sink or cease

　　Endlessly to his wound

　　In many married London's estranging² grief.

　　On almost the incendiary eve

　　When at your lips and keys，

　　Locking， unlocking， the murdered strangers weave，

　　One who is most unknown，

　　Your polestar neighbour， sun of another street，

　　Will dive up to his tears.

　　He'll bathe his raining blood in the male sea

　　Who strode for your own dead

　　And wind his globe out of your water thread

　　And load the throats of shells

　　with every cry since light

　　Flashed first across his thunderclapping eyes.

　　On almost the incendiary eve

　　Of deaths and entrances，

　　When near and strange wounded on London's waves

　　Have sought your single grave，

　　One enemy， of many， who knows well

　　Your heart is luminous³

　　In the watched dark， quivering through locks and caves，

　　Will pull the thunderbolts

　　To shut the sun， plunge⁴， mount your darkened keys

　　And sear just riders back，

　　Until that one loved least

　　Looms⁵ the last Samson of your zodiac.