Classic Poem

On the dark wings of the cutting blast
you bring me at the same time pain and joy;
something like a soft breast's frozen virtue,
something that combines the cordial cool
and icy forlornness of a virgin's bed.

And lo, in the mute city's unlooked for gloom,
you are a light before the murky fauces
of my hunger; lo, in the rain's wet shadow
you exude candour like new-washed linen
and, like it, spread an odour of chastity;
lo, in the darkness you distil the essence
of some good fiancée's tearful handkerchief.

I huddle in the thick obscurity
and think for you these lines whose hidden rhyme
you must with rapid divination mark;
for they are petals of night that bring you tidings
of singular thrill; and plunged within my self
in the wet shadows, I send confusedly
these fragile syllables, like a gust of mystery,
to the threshold of your vigilant spirit.

You are all shed upon me like white frost,
and the translucent meteor continues
out of time; and your far words within
me sound with the dreamlike intensity
of a disordered clock striking all hours
in a disordered room. . . .