Behold the Blessed Virgin, immaculate
In Titian’s wreaths of lilac, violet and rose,
A spring bloom of culture. But however great
The mighty Assumption, however bold or beautiful, to suppose
We’d entered for this were wrong. We came that way
Thanks to a different art: music. Not notes,
Though there was an organ which began to play
The rite while we harvested masterpieces, our coats
Wetting the stones as an aftermath of the rainy day
Outside. Not a mass, but a body — one our throats
Tightened at: Monteverdi, buried in his second
City. Though barred from us, you honoured him willy-nilly
With poor, cut flowers. O words, grow fecund:
Sing of this winter blossom, my perfect lily.
In Titian’s wreaths of lilac, violet and rose,
A spring bloom of culture. But however great
The mighty Assumption, however bold or beautiful, to suppose
We’d entered for this were wrong. We came that way
Thanks to a different art: music. Not notes,
Though there was an organ which began to play
The rite while we harvested masterpieces, our coats
Wetting the stones as an aftermath of the rainy day
Outside. Not a mass, but a body — one our throats
Tightened at: Monteverdi, buried in his second
City. Though barred from us, you honoured him willy-nilly
With poor, cut flowers. O words, grow fecund:
Sing of this winter blossom, my perfect lily.
(1992)
