Classic Poem

You, who walk with eyes upon the ground,
I do not hear you pass, I feel instead
A fine contempt for all the narrow sound
Falling like clotted dust from passing tread.

The manner of your moving eases me.
You seem to walk between me and the sun
Which wraps you now with dangerous radiancy
Like flames that burn and blacken as they run.

And yet you move with unconcern, and I
Am pleased with you, though I know not how far
Your thought resists the menace in the sky,
Or if you but forget that such things are.