Classic Poem

White and delicate, like white lilies,
hardly visible among the cloak,
the hands . . . the hands that do not break my chains.

Blue and strewn with a sand of gold,
blue and golden as unclouded nights,
the eyes . . . the eyes that contemplate my sins.

White the neck as the dove's snowy breast,
Beard and hair like to the mane of the sun,
And like to silver the shapely foot unshod.

Mild and sad the face, the garment blue. . . .
Thus across the mighty lake of evil
Jesus came to my unction, as to the bark.

And the pinnacle glittered on my spirit
its fleeting and abundant certitude,
as though with radiance of reflected light.

So he wonts to come and give me back
the faith that saves and the illusion that gladdens,
and for a flash my dark soul is aflame.