Those Who Have Burned

Those who have burned themselves to the blood's limit, Have kindled their tree of flesh to its fierce end, Who appraise the guilty heartbeat, and within it Find nothing of warmth they can willingly defend . . .

Those whose own hands pick at their sullen bodies To rid themselves of the increment of time, To slip from the icy bone its cloud of duties, Unsheathe it into the milky destructive lime . . .

Those who, in the ripe garden, find no music But owl-call and the persuasion of the clay, The cold rock levels sloping silently deeper Out of the blood heat of the summer day . . .

Commit them to themselves, with the most final And most generous will your hurt mind can control, That thought it had property in them. Their denial Is of any world that wishes them well and whole.

Do them the courtesy of this hard admission. Restrain comment, think only of what it is worth To them to be scattered in entire division Into the blind, unrecognizing earth.