Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kiking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arriving at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you might say) satisfactory.

The choir departed, a Bach prelude began
Its low register blending with the subway grumbling beneath
The boys and men appeared again, processing behind a cross
Singing of one sweet, one mild (one sent to be tortured and die?)
Birth to death is the expected path: yet pain and suffering surprise
Beauty is desired but seldom expected quite often rejected.