I bring you the infant of Idumaean night! Black, bleeding and pale at the wing, distraught, Through glass inflamed by aromatics and gold, Through panes which alas are still dreary and chilled, Dawn threw herself on the lamp, angelic, Palms! and when it showed the father this relic, Essaying then an inimical smile, The solitude trembled, blue and sterile. O the cradle received a horrible birth with the Innocence of your cold feet and your daughter, And your voice bringing back clavecin and viol, Will you press with withered finger the nipple Whence the woman in sibylline whiteness flows Towards the lips which the air or the azure maid starves? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MIDSUMMER FROST (2) by ISAAC ROSENBERG BUCOLIC COMEDY: WHY by EDITH SITWELL |