Gift Of A Poem
I bring you the child of an Idumaean night!
Black, with wing bleeding, pale and unfeathered,
Through the glass burnt with incense and gold,
Through the panes, frozen, and still gloomy, alas
The dawn burst forth on the lamp angelic,
Palms! and when it had shown this relic
To its father attempting an enemy smile,
The blue and sterile solitude shuddered.
O nursing mother, with your child and the innocence
Of your cold feet, receive this horrible birth
And with your voice recalling viol and clavecin,
With your faded finger, will you press the breast
Whence flows in sibylline whiteness woman
For lips made hungry by the blue virgin air?