I met the giant tending in a garden,
bending his too-small body over flowers;
his hands were much too gentle, and too tender.
The hair that curled about his chin was clipped,
and not the beard that I had dreamt: the broad
and silver mantle round a master's mouth.
Under the brows that slanted thick and heavy
as saturated clouds, the deer-mild eyes
(that seemed so sick of honor they could close
and lose no shred of brightness) gazed on darkness,
a kind that I had not been given to see,
that eyes in portraits gander sidelong into,
and through; the night that is the sum of griefs
past revelation or solace. When I woke
The sun blazed. I'm too easily consoled.
bending his too-small body over flowers;
his hands were much too gentle, and too tender.
The hair that curled about his chin was clipped,
and not the beard that I had dreamt: the broad
and silver mantle round a master's mouth.
Under the brows that slanted thick and heavy
as saturated clouds, the deer-mild eyes
(that seemed so sick of honor they could close
and lose no shred of brightness) gazed on darkness,
a kind that I had not been given to see,
that eyes in portraits gander sidelong into,
and through; the night that is the sum of griefs
past revelation or solace. When I woke
The sun blazed. I'm too easily consoled.
