Glory

Glory is of the sun, too, and the sun of suns,
and down the shafts of his splendid pinions
run tiny rivers of peace.

Most of his time, the tiger pads and slouches in a burning peace.

And the small hawk high up turns round on the slow pivot of peace.

Peace comes from behind the sun, with the peregrine falcon, and
   the owl.

Yet all these drink blood.