previous
next

Mater Creatorix

IN the field of death I sought him. Oh, the curse on him was sore!
Sweat of blood and tears my portion, but his?. … to die. … to die!
O bruised reed waiting for the wind to reap as it blew by;
O smoking flax awaiting to be quenched for evermore!

In the field of death I sought him, I all sad and sorrow-shod;
Before my eyes a vision, and within my heart a flame;
And the smoking flax was quickened, and the broken reed became
The Miracle—the mystery of Aaron's budding rod.

In the field of death I found him! Oh, very joy of breath!
On my eternal wheel the potter's clay of his desire
I have graved with cunning purpose, I have moulded as with fire,
I have shapen to Divinity, and conquest over Death!

previous
next