Fingertips

Lilies of paradise, O fingertips,
or the first-sprung locks of radiance?
Their buds have flushed with rose — O my blood,
be slow! I wished that death would not make haste;
enough for me that my soul fell sick
upon their skin, and barriers stood between.

Fingertips you are: did you, I wonder,
know that ivory is no likeness,
and that the Creator — glory be to Him —
has an art before which Raphaels fall away...
Then wake the enchantment in my limbs,
or else: be generous, however I may try,
that I may rub my brow in the dust — O my abasement,
and O the bliss of an abasement that goes on —
that I may drink deep of hope; how much I quench with it...
Alas! After it the streams ran dry.

March 17, 1946