Arachne: A Literary Journal. No. 1
Clocktime like fansticks fell apart,
And every second hardened to an hour;
Event now timed to match the anguished heart
Rustled with pentecostal power.
The torches shed their glow in flakes and showers
On those in helmet spiked and cloak of jade
Who, bowed beneath the pall, the crown, the flowers,
Guarded by curirassiers with icy blade,
Stood in the vault upon the verge
Of Underworld where Guelph and Staufer live deposed;
And down from haunts of men came grief in winged surge,
And at the horizon a high portal closed.