Color and shape,
That lives, that lives, that does endure; not strange,
Not utterly dissolved, not less nor more,
Nor lonely imaging,—
Some coin of beauty's buried gold to escape
Earth and the secret thieving of the spring.
O Death, not all, not all his beauty's strength,
His dark crowned head,
His body's shining length
Of subtle gracefulness, is shattered, dead,
Dead and forever lost.
I see him lie, a naked swimmer tossed
High on the pallid sands,
With all the tawny summer crowning him,
His broad brown hands
Cupped to the flooding sun; thigh, shoulder, throat,
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