The spear of Chile,
Yellow,
Through the thrilling cheek,
With all the push of an upturned Andean peak.
The spear of Thibet,
Violet,
Through the eager hand,
The thrust of the iron of a silent land.
The spear of the Ice-Poles,
Green,
Through the warm-breathing breast,
The glacial east and the glacial west
The spear of Norway,
Blue,
Through the curved arm-pit,
The cheerless sun majestic in a jagged slit.
The spear of India,
Indigo,
Through the holy side,
A heaven-touching temple-roof down a mountain-slide.
The spear of Europe,
Red,
In the mouth's breath,
The million-splintering scream of death . . .
Even to us,
The seven-spearing sun,
The sword of separation before our love is done;
Even for us,
A simian shape
Throwing seven souls on the sea-wet cape;
Even for us
Who smile mouth to mouth,
The full tornado from the seven-forked south;
Even to us
Who clasp with our knees,
The scattering upheaval of the seven cold seas!
And this is as near as lovers ever come,
Their words are dumb;
This is as near as they have ever kissed,
Their lips are ocean-mist.
Yet what avail the seven
Spears of memory
Against the obstinate archery
Of light, the spears of heaven?
ANNE KNISH
Opus 40