from Heart of Love

It was a long while
touched with frost and remembrance of the poppy;
subsisting only on the irony
upon which hope fed
bled of all prosperity,
affiance had but word in memory,
and not a word penetrated the glass.
As stars that punctuate the night,
each to each conversant,
bright the host;
or as the satellite whose rays
borrowed, effulgent, and silent,
praise sun's glory, though alone,
so down youth's vesper
thought I to peep into the stabled firmament
where God's own chariots whirl,
and here to hold exchange:
but the heavens were as brass.
What passed in this exchange,
in the silence electrified between us?

When love gave all time immediacy,
and every flower was a rose
sprung from Aurora's dew,
coaxed from the lusty fountainhead of spring,
each inflorescence grew
though bosomed deep in alien soil,
and swelled with affection's heat.
Hope flamed with faith's expediency
sown by an unseen toil;
across the plane of our mortality
impossible love arose
in the conjugation of worlds.
Every honeyed token from revelation's lip
dript with rapture's thrill,
fresh-fallen from Eden's purse and
startled the infant soul with the proximate heaven.
O God of affection sweet!
Undefiled imperishable unfading
and keyed with the intimacy unknown
to mystics and machine,
unguarded your chambers by the mercy-seat
from which the veil parted, and to greet
ascended where the blossom grows,
pavilioned in splendor's gates.

But sudden as the midnight flower
eclipses scowled and turned the noonday black,
strange as the penitentiary hour
preceding the lilac.
God, and the devils that precede our track
have troubled every bower
with the ardor of their love's conformity
swelling over our humanity.
But still devotion beat the waters back
charting destitution's track
without emotion,
and all time on probation seemed,
thirsting for that familiar communion
unsalted by fire. Here without thrill
stands the strangest rose
untroubled by storms;
here flamed by Hell's wings
God's amaranth grows.

After the silence where the owlet sleeps
and Luna keeps her solemn arc
where clouds propitious howl and chatter,
their lightnings funneled to the sod,
the barren yet can barely utter
prayers of beseeching to its God
(but dreams of convalescent matter.)
Tied with the flame of love's devotion fierce
the thunder's horror struck a distant star;
electric terror pierced the firmament
as Christ at Meribah.
Then came the waters long and deep
from which the panting deers did slake their thirst;
bled out from Heaven's hearse
this inimitable cure
of wyrmwood, and of myrrh,
that stirred this fallow ground.
What interstellar wars are here confessed?
My God, but bind this frame, or love me less!
Eternal iconoclast, from whose wellspring
came the boughs of our affection,
we burn in adoration;
framed in flesh this precious host
sanctified in veneration
of the Ghost.

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