Christ never rose again, but you arose,
My ribald saint, out of a deathly bed
To snatch my insubstantial life from those
Despairs and poisons which had made me dead.
How dark and delicate you are, and yet
How full of blood, and I am only caught
In irony, a nervous vulgar net.
We were a sturdy differential fraught
With an unlikely mirth, and hand in glove
Between strange-sorted friends and gay disdain;
But all the time, beyond my scope of love,
Lonely you prowled the inward vaults of pain,
Seeking, beyond harsh loyalty, some rest
From bearing the vague misery of quest.