Poetry

LVI – First Reading

From whence it came I cannot know, that soul
Immortal which sits your breast, descended
So like an angel, full of pity
To heal the heart & bless the earth.

This alone enthrals me, and this alone
I will love, and not your pretty face.
Instead, I choose a love which won’t grow less
For it fixes on the lasting good.

And if, say, this form by chance should find
New loveliness and grace come forth with age
Then from the sheath I shall divine the knife – 

For my God never showed Himself more plain
than in her form, and I in her see Him,
so for this reason alone I will love. 

Alex Marsh