I’ve often held him in my arms before,
But sleeping, never. Nothing here of lust:
Dull innocent, not knowing any more,
His heavy head laid on my chest in trust.
Half-knowledge flicks beneath his full-closed eyes,
All conscious thought retired to the deeps;
His will is powerless, and while he lies,
I’m left, alone, and guard him as he sleeps.

In silence such do some men’s deaths begin:
Struck by cold fate, their minds are loosed, like his.
They cannot speak. Were he thus locked within,
How could I cease to love the man he is?
For while I hold his weighted body whole,
His body cradles, still, his noble soul.