The Travail Of Passion

WHEN the flaming lute-thronged angelic door is wide;
When an immortal passion breathes in mortal clay;
Our hearts endure the scourge, the plaited thorns, the way
Crowded with bitter faces, the wounds in palm and side,
The vinegar-heavy sponge, the flowers by Kedron stream;
We will bend down and loosen our hair over you,
That it may drop faint perfume, and be heavy with dew,
Lilies of death-pale hope, roses of passionate dream.

by William Butler Yeats

Comments (1)

AFRAID To email my poem to Charles Simic, but I do. To watch his eyes examine a bike with broken training wheels kid bleeding from a fall. Too much to fathom. But there in Santa’s red thread under the tree a gift wrapped beauty To: Bob. Angels hover closer. Inside the blue box is Charlie’s gift: a diamond sculpture of his newest poem, Deleted.