He truly loved the sun, crimson descending hillsides,
the ways through the woods, the song of the blackbirds,
the ecstasy of green.
So serious, this life in the shade of trees,
this pure countenance.
God spoke a gentle flame into his heart:
Silence found his stride at the city in evening;
the dark complaint of his mouth:
“I will become a rider.”
But he was yet stalked by bush and beast,
the houses and dim gardens of pale strangers,
and his killer searched after him.
Spring and Summer and the lovely Fall
of the just, his soft path
past the dark apartments of dreamers.
At night he stood with his star alone;
Saw snow fall on barren limbs
and in dusky halls the shadows of assassins.
The unborn head sinks, silver, low.
And here is a version by someone who probably knows their shit better than I do.