The Rabbit Room

Demandez l’étoile matinière et prenez aussi votre amour terrestre.

My heart in grief’s a stricken dove which leans
O’er hidden nest of given things, mild head
Inclined unto dark mercies, awful means,
Whereby kind Love woos living from the dead.
For Joy, my pinioned soul takes leap in art
Of blackbird’s liquid song, and blood-stained wing
The blessed wound I bear from Love’s trained dart:
Old earth but veils the heaven which I sing.
From Love itself my frantic spirit flees
In Fear, a maddened gull that won’t be tamed
By peace, but lights on waves of doubt the sea
Casts up, or flies in storm’s black face. Unshamed,
Love sends my lover, in whose arms this wild
Bird’s snared, content to be by love beguiled.