page 35

The Crucifix

Aroused from sleep by a rising wind
on a clear night and starlit,
when I awake up after thy likeness,
some echo chanted,
I shall be satisfied with it.

Thy likeness, thy likeness, I considered,
wakened wide by this saying,
dimly might it not be mirrored
on such a night as this,
in a glass darkly, not plain.

This night, epitome of thy handiwork:
garment, not of darkness but deep indigo light;
bodyguard of vast dazzling worlds;
this rounded and immense silence
tell of truth, beauty, might.

But now, by wide phosphorescence,
down by the riverside,
of myriad street cressets
lit dim, I descry
a stark carven gibbet.

Oh staggering symbol of distress!
Thy paradox resolve, Enlightening Spirit:
this scatheless, soul-intoxicating night of loveliness,
and hung there truthful high over my pallet,
the crucifix, the crucifix.