When that immortal hospital made one more moove to soothe
The curless counted body,
And ruin his causes
Over the barbed and shooting sea assumed an army
And swept into our wounds and houses,
I climb to greet the war in which I have no heart but only
That one dark I owe my light,
Call for confessor and wiser mirror but there is none
To glow after the god stoning night
And I am struck as lonely as a holy marker by the sun
No
Praise that the spring time is all
Gabriel and radiant shrubbery as the morning grows joyful
Out of the woebegone pyre
And the multitude's sultry tear turns cool on the weeping wall,
My arising prodgidal
Sun the father his quiver full of the infants of pure fire,
Gabriel: “an angel of the Lord” ( Luke 1:11 ) 
 
 Pyre: a heap of combustible material, especially one for burning a corpse as part of a funeral ceremony. 
 Heaven is opening up and letting the speaker’s friend into the after life. Also touching on the deeper cycles of renewal that come with the changing of the seasons.
Holy Spring