Fingertips

Lilies of paradise, O fingertips,
or the first-born locks of radiance?
Their hills have flushed rose-red — 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 rose between.

*

Fingertips you are: did you, I wonder,
never know that ivory is no match,
and that the Maker — glory be to Him —
has an art before which Raphaels fall short...
Then wake enchantment in my limbs,
or no: be bountiful, however I contrive,
and let me press my brow down, O my delight —
and oh the bliss of an abasement prolonged —
and let me drink deep of hope: how much I quench with it...
Alas! After it the streams ran dry.