Harry Crosby (4 June 1898 - 10 December 1929 / Boston, Massachusetts)
Quatrains to the Sun
A sunfort flourished in my sunless heart
Beyond the Sun. Here in a tower apart
The sunbirds of my lady's eyes were caged
Alas, poor targets for the sun-god's dart.
The Sun at Chartres seen through an open door
Was like a nest, wherein I hatched a score
Of red-gold sun-thoughts. Now unheralded
They change to sun-nymphs on my heart's dark shore.
The Sun at noon is like a pool of gold
Towards whose uncertain brink the clouds have rolled
To quench their thirst. Likewise the invisible winds
Drink fire, and all my heart is sun-consoled.
Like to a giant dragon in his cage
Of clouds the Sun in unconcealéd rage
Glares down across the magic of the world
Intent upon this untried pasturage.
The Sun is a red arrow plunged to rest
In the dark target of the sea's wild breast
But morning shall unveil the gentle scene
Of sun-girls bathing in a palimpsest.
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