thank you poem

a gleam of gold in gloom and gray
in your flight
are you alive?
when you come tonight
high-born race
over the river, on the hill
there by the window in the old house
if the red slayer think he slays
like him whose spirit in the blaze of noon
sweet splendor
afraid no more, i say
in all things not spoken of
the agony of having too much power
look back with longing eyes and know that i will follow