O
          Out of a bed of love
When that immortal hospital made one more moove to soothe
          The curless counted body,
               And ruin and his causes
Over the barbed and shooting sea assumed an army
          And swept into our wounds and houses,
I climb to greet the war in which I have no heart but only
          That one dark I owe my light,
Call for confessor and wiser mirror but there is none
          To glow after the god stoning night
And I am struck as lonely as a holy marker by the sun.

                              No
          Praise that the spring time is all
Gabriel and radiant shrubbery as the morning grows joyful
               Out of the woebegone pyre
And the multitude's sultry tear turns cool on the weeping wall,
          My arising prodgidal
Sun the father his quiver full of the infants of pure fire,
          But blessed be hail and upheaval
That uncalm still it is sure alone to stand and sing
          Alone in the husk of man's home
And the mother and toppling house of the holy spring,
          If only for a last time.

Added: Feb 20 2003 | Viewed: 3886 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Dylan Thomas
Poem: Holy Spring

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