Classic Poem

Like the bole of a fallen mountain tree.
A clear, majestic, pure and lofty brow.
Black brows together drawn in the fine
and arching line that images the flight

of a bird lightly sketched against the sky.
Nostrils like a falcon's beak. Pallor
of ivory hair. Already verdureless
the pine fell and lies, part ringed with hoar.

The eyeball, stretching the ill-sutured lids,
emits a dark and glassy gleam of grief,
sheen of well water over its numbed depths.

With my handkerchief I fright and scatter
flies; and on the dead face a vague shadow
hovers, as of a condor, or of flight.