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.