Normale Version: The Womb of Night (2)
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How long delays the miracle blossoming,
vermeil and gold, soft fire, flush of the dark,
aurora, and ravish of night's mother ark
still hallow'd 'neath her present cherishing!

The sides of night are anguish'd with this thing,
unnatural, a fear, a rending: hark,
dim mutterings; the gulfs are strain'd and stark:
dark stress, delay, distress, and vanishing.

O womb, dark womb that darkenest, what art
shall set thee free, and us? or must our heart
yet sleep in squalid snowdrifts of the dust?

Oh that all ends of the world were come on us,
and fire were close beneath earth's stubborn crust,
and all our days were crumbling, ruinous!


Because this curse is on the dawn, to yield
her secrecy distill'd of nuptial tears,
and day dismantles, casual, nor reveres
whate'er august our brooding dream'd reveal'd;

because that night to whom we next appeal'd,
no more gestation of inviolate spheres,
shameless, is mimic of the day, nor fears
the scant occurrence of her stars repeal'd:

Therefore, if never in some awful heart
a gather'd peace, impregnable, apart,
cherish us in that shrine of steadfast fire,

be these alone our care, excluding hence
some form undesecrate of all desire,
the wings of silence, adamantine, dense.