Holbein's More, my patron saint as a convert,
the gold chain of S's, the golden rose,
the plush cap, the brow's damp feathertips of hair,
the good eyes' stern, facetious twinkle, ready
to turn from executioner to martyr —
or saunter with the great King's bluff arm on your neck,
feeling that friend-slaying, terror-dazzled heart
balooning off into its awful dream —
a noble saying, " How the King must love you!"
And you, " If it were a question of my head,
or losing his meanest village in France ..."
then by the scaffold and the headsman's axe —
" Friend, give me your hand for the first step,
as for coming down, I'll shift for myself."