Take up a cut-glass poem
And hold it to your lamp
That you might see
Its radiant opacity,
And shafted steel-blue veins of light.
Turn, turn it gently, on poised web-fingers
Like some slow machinery,
That you might mark
The shaping interval of motion,
The pulse of new-bound time.
That should be all, unless
Within your own cross-mirrored halls
Other crystal broods are spawned.
Then let you hand withdraw,
That the smithereens might free
The between-space which it artfully confined.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem