Breaking the blossoms of our overdated fancies
Our old sentimentality and whimsicality
Loves of the morning.
Blackness at half-past eight, the night's precursor,
Clouds like falling masonry and lightning's lavish
Annunciation, the sword of the mad archangel
Flashed from the scabbard.
If only you would come and dare the crystal
Rampart of the rain and the bottomless moat of thunder,
If only now you would come I should be happy
Now if now only.
"... dare the crystal rampart of the rain ..." is a beautiful phrase. Love this poem.
ReplyDeleteIt took me to the half way point of the poem to hear the rain and thunderstorm sounds which pervade it. My English teacher would have roasted me.
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