Classic Poem

When the last weariness
comes upon me
I will to my village
like the stork in the proverb,
to kneel among
the roses in the square,
the hoops of the children
and the silken fringes of the shawls.

To kneel in the midst
of a grassy feast
where houseling
the clock in the steeple,
with its mourning face
and hands of gold,
and man and beast,
and the orange-blossom
that goes to the head,
and the rays of the sun,
on his chariot the All-Divine appears.

Meshed in the light
that evening spins
as in an apostle
spider's web,
I must say my fame
humbled and humble
more than the hooves
of the gentle mules
that are yoked to the Holy Sacrament.

" I know thee, Lord,
though thou goest incognito,
at thy scented tread
I am deaf and dumb,
palsied and blind,
that I may joy in thy balsamic presence.

" Thy sonorous car
of a sudden stills
the short-lived stir
as though the streets
were a playground wrapt
in a sudden hush.
My cousin, her needle
poised, behind
her window-panes
with statuesque gesture stands stock still.

" Bearer of
the news of the world
the village postman is plunged in his bag.

" Genevieve's damp bodice
hung out to dry
no longer dances
on the roof.

" The hen and her speckled
brood leave off
their fairy-tale.

" Don Blas his brow
is turned to stone
by the bulging slab
the ash roots crack.

" The oranges have
stopped growing and I,
to live this minute,
scarce quake before thee.

" Lord, my rash
heart that sought
proud chimerae
grovels and cries
that I am thy beholden chattel.

" Because thou hast set
in my breast a magnet
shaped like a clover
and the passionate colour of poppy.

" But that same magnet
is humble and hidden
like the magnetized comb
that maidens use
to catch up pins
and electrize their hair in the gloom.

" Lord, this chattel
with magnet heart
loves and confesses thee
with the root's
deep ardour thrusting
and splitting the age-old slabs.

" All is kneeling
and the brows in the dust;
my life is the passionate
poppy whose stem
effusive bends
to die beneath thy wheels. "