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Allen Tate - The Anabasis
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In Mem. L. N. L. Ob. MCMXXXII

Noble beyond degree
In a democracy:
Slight woman whose spent grace
Banishes their vision
To the thin trackless air,
Stop now upon the stair
As they have seen you do
Meridional and true,
And with nut-brown hair
Restore location
To them now blinded quite
By the grave s after-light,
For unless it be done
The slave heart all alone
Strives tunelessly
To go where you are gone-
Whether to vaults of air,
Imponderable nowhere,
Or the reducing sea-
The regions that are fair
Beyond heart`s mastery.
They try your form to see
(Its lineless agony)
In our philosophy
Which stops, as cold and bare
As headless hair,
As lifeless as your bones,
Obtuse as meadow stones:
Re-corporated be!
(They cry you in despair)
Lest we, a blind race,
Imitate mortality
For all our living`s pace,
And drawn into the bliss
Of your dispersed face
Should join, before our place,
Death`s long anabasis.
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