Jet-black the crags of False Emmanuel Head
Against the winter sunset: standing stark
Within the shorn sun's frosty glare, night-dark,
A solitary monk with arms outspread
In worship or in frustrate tense desire
Of racked and tortured flesh: still young and spare,
With drooping head he seems to hang in air
Crucified on a wheel of blood-red fire.

The red sun dips, and slowly to his side
His slack arms fall, and in the clear green light
Of the frosty afterglow where coldly burns
A lonely star, a very pillar of night
He stands above the steely shivering tide,
Then slowly to the darkening east he turns.