Though there are wild dogs
Infesting the roads
We have recitals, catalogues
Of protected birds;
And the rare pale sun
To water our days.
Men turn to savagery now or turn
To the laws'
Immutable black and red.
To be judged for his song,
Traversing the still-moist dead,
The newly-stung,
Love goes, carrying compassion
To the rawly-difficult;
His countenance, his hands' motion,
Serene even to a fault.