Gift Of A Poem
I bring you the child of an Idumaean night!
Black, with wing bleeding, pale and unfeathered,
Through the glass burnt with incense and gold,
Through the panes, frozen, and still gloomy, alas
The dawn burst forth on the lamp angelic,
Palms! and when it had shown this relic
To its father attempting an enemy smile,
The blue and sterile solitude shuddered.
O nursing mother, with your child and the innocence