who is that on the hilltopdrawing into himself the erect new rosy shafts of early sun
the sides of himand the straight calm angles of his faceare spangled with glory
new marchings are coming up the skynew spears of red sharp strength are clashing noiselessly in the broken and suddenly sighing air
is he offering himself
but he has nothingyou can see he has no possessions
himself he is offeringhis own worth as a beingand as a manand as a pool of quiet for the downshine of the sunand as an aspirer
of stars
