Winter's a Dominican;
Rosary of snowy-white,
Every pearl becoming one
In the oyster of the night.
Look upon the lily pool!
Sailing to Thermopylae,
Spartan shoals, comestible,
Fallen shields of fish swim by.
Water cannot hold a shape;
As with mysteries we drape
Venus-veils around the mind,
Crooked lanes forever wind
From the centre of the whole.
What's the contour of a soul?
A barb, a bird, a candleglow,
In the flesh, seraglio?
Or a phoenix, flown entire
From the furnace of the fire?
Is it ancient as a tree,
Solitary as leprosy?
Does it skip on infant feet,
Where the meadowgrass lies sweet?
Where the dead men congregate,
Can the soul obliterate
With the alchemy of tears
The leaden casket of the years?
Be the snowdropp in the hearse,
Microcosmic universe?
The deathless river flows along
Soft, a nightingale in song,
Slipping, silken as a cat...
I would have a soul like that!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem