1.
In the dark night of the soul,
Un-reckoned by any clock,
I gazed into the eyes of a boy,
Un-reckoned in the nights
Of anyone yet, like two ponds
—Unclouded by memory and brimming—
In repose …
At this point
Your life begins.
My greying Roman she-wolf’s
Gaze, upon my fosterling sees—Rome!
My dreaming motherhood’s
Rock face … With no name for my
Sense of loss … Every pall is
Lifted—growing out of my losses!—
Just as once above a bull-rush
Basket there bent a daughter
Of Egypt …
2.
In the dark hour of the soul,
In the dark—of night …
(The gigantic footstep of the soul,
Of the soul at night)
At that hour, soul, take control
Of those worlds, where you want
To rule—mansion of the soul,
Soul, of that, take control.
Redden your lips, powder
Your lashes—with snow.
(Atlantean sigh of the soul,
Of the soul—into the night …)
At that hour, soul, darken
Your eyes, where like Vega
You will rise … and let sour,
Soul, the sweetest fruit.
Sour and darken:
Grow up: take control.
3.
There’s an hour of the Soul, like the hour of the Moon,
Of an owl—the hour, of mist—the hour, of darkness—
The hour … Hour of the Soul—like the hour of the harp-string
Of David through the dreams
Of Saul … At that hour, tremble,
Vanity, and wipe off your rouge!
There’s an hour of the Soul, like the hour of the storm,
Child, and this hour—is mine.
This hour of the innermost depths
Of my breast.—The breaking of a dam!
Of all things breaking loose from their hinges.
Of secrets—breaking from their lips!
From my eyes—all the veils lift! All tracks—
Lead back! On the ruled staves—not—
A note! Hour of the Soul, like the hour of Troubles,
Child, and this hour—strikes.
As my Trouble!—as you call it.
As when, as if lacerated by
A scalpel, children—reproach
Their mother: “Why do we live?”
And she, with her palm, cools
Their fever: “We need—To lie down.”
Yes, the hour of the Soul, like the hour of the knife,
Child, and this knife—is a blessing.