Blood Brothers

The blunt snouts of a dozen worms or so Were busy at the thing that had worn clothes, As conscientious as a lot of clowns And quite as self-absorbed. Beside the grave A figure stood in armor, stood and blazed With the pale dazzle of an April moon, Rippling a steely silver from his wings That trembled in their fierce desire for air; Armed like an angel, blazoned like a king, And proud as charging seas first seen at dawn. The worms raised up their heads and spoke to him. He answered like a father to his children, Praising them all for honest, quiet work, And pointing out new pastures. And they bowed; Again became a stir among corruption. He looked upon the seethe with steady eyes Of awful friendship. So I left them there, The three immortal parts of John J. Jones.