The Fortunate Fall of Hair
Across a Forehead
His hair is worth the trouble Christ has caused
In making all this universe of pain.
This hair is Rupert Brooke’s hair, waved and paused
In holy photographs, but blond again,
Not printed, real as Christ surrounded by
The gold and white of angels in their waves
Arranged around Him on His throne on high.
This thickness of this beauty here, now, saves
Jehovah from the accusation of
The lute-like Lucifer that God was wrong
To breathe His hierarchies to life. Above
This young man’s brow true lovelinesses throng
In high-toned layered twists and folds in deep,
Sung praise of Christ Who makes this surf-shaped sweep.
