My love, whose smile is wide enough to clasp
the heavens in; whose sorrow can expend
the deep-dug wells of earth; whose anger's grasp
no whisper can unravel; whose amend
no benison of rainbows can surpass;
whose passion strides where armies never went,
and lays what claims it pleases; and whose glass
flashes with all the sunrays it has bent,
much like a crystal: Love, on this our day
of memory of cycles run complete
and cycles yet to be, our eyes will meet
and recognise once more the subtle play
of light and night. We'll laugh through dreary weather,
and toast another year of us together.
The Word becomes flesh - What is wanted here is silence. That the young woman is pregnant is suggested by her unlaced gown, shorter in front than in back. Her labor has begun, ...
1 month ago