English

Because thou art a saint, and clothed in white,
Thou art to me the sweetest of all flowers,
And far more fragrant are thy beauty's bowers
Than those that flaunt their bloom to daily sight.
Love is a small thing, when the love is light, —
But the great love that mocketh mortal hours
And sings the clearer when the storm-cloud lowers,
Endures beyond earth's day, beyond death's night.

Because thou art a saint, thou art a flower,
And thou art woman in that thou art saint,
And angel in thy womanhood's pure power,

The thought of such sweet company forsaking
Is odious, — would that I could stay the sun!
Put back the clock, dream on without awaking,
Nor rise to meet a sad new day begun!
But days will pass, — they do not last for ever,
And then there comes again the sweet warm night,
A gentle lady, sent our souls to sever
From all the wear and labour of the light.
Thrice welcome art thou! brood about my pillow,
And cover me with darkness as a shield,
And touch my eyes with sleep — into the billow

Therefore I love the darkness, and right gladly
I lay me down, and close my eyes and wait,
Wait, — wondering half smilingly, half sadly,
What dreams will issue through the Ivory Gate.
'Tis bliss to feel that I perchance may meet her,
And talk to her, and walk with her till morn,
And falling low before her feet entreat her
Till dreams at daylight-advent fly forlorn:
To think that ere I wake to brave the morrow
Closed eyes may feast in rapture on her face,
And heart forget its pain, and soul its sorrow,

At last have passed the blanks and dreary spaces
And chilling hours of the white windy day!
My soul set free descends to happier places,
Where golden-winged dreams, a bright array,
Wait for me, — glimpses of sweet smiling faces,
And chords of light that round my pillow play.
Oh welcome, welcome, gladsome hours of night-time
When fancy loosed exerts her wondrous spell,
A joy to me, a marvel, a delight-time,
A rainbow-coloured realm I love right well,
My region of reality, my bright time

Stiff stilts of herself.

Silver bag of herself
with turquoise gilt
midriff.

(Shake it but
no more will fit.)

Red lipstick line
between the folds —

precise —

opposite baby"s soft
gurgling.

Have you lost your
passes?

Greeks pictured the afterlife
as an insipid version
of the world they knew.

But they couldn"t
see this.

Two women,
with red mesh crests
atop white hair,

enter the lounge area;

1

Touch each chakra
in turn and say,

" Nothing shocks me. "

2

Watching bombs fall
on Syria,

we feel serious,

occupied,

not preoccupied
as we were

previously.

3

" Makes me end,
where I begun, "

wrote John Donne,

turning love
into geometry.

Deathless Aphrodite, adorned with embroidered flowers,
daughter of Zeus, weaver of wiles, I pray to you,
do not stress my heart, lady,
with aches and pains,

Rather, come here, if ever before
having heard from afar this, my voice,
you heeded it, and leaving your father"s
golden palace, came;

you yoked your chariot; quick, beautiful birds
brought you over the dark earth,
from heaven and across the sky,
beating their thick wings,

and suddenly they were here; and you, oh blessed one,

O why do you walk through the fields in boots,
Missing so much and so much?
O fat white woman whom nobody shoots,
Why do you walk through the fields in boots,
When the grass is soft as the breast of coots
And shivering-sweet to the touch?

Springtime's messenger
The nightingale, her voice filled with longing

The moon shone full
As the women stood around the altar