Classic Poem

From now on you shall feel me at your side
For ever: you will stand, and I will stand
Parallel with you; you shall know my hand
Narrowly at work upon your pride;
The thumb's whorl in the margin and the wide
Wedge of the leaf turned down and all the bland
Ritual of the sun on paper — and —
From now on I shall pace you, stride for stride.

Though in the custom of your cowardice
You howl for pity, pity there'll be none:
Remembering a certain furtive kiss
Once, in Judea, I shall be as bone. . . .
Dart at my shadow in a slippery hiss
And strike — you shall be striking at a stone.