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