AH yes, I know you well, a sojourner
At the hearth;
I know right well the
marriage ring you wear,
And what it’s worth.
The angels came to Abraham, and they stayed
In his house
awhile;
So you to
mine, I imagine; yes, happily
Condescend to be vile.
I see you all the time, you bird-blithe,
lovely
Angel in
disguise.
I see
right well how I ought to be grateful,
Smitten with reverent
surprise.
Listen, I have no use
For so rare a visit;
Mine is a common
devil’s
Requisite.
Rise up and go, I have no use for you
And your blithe, glad
mien.
No angels
here, for me no goddesses,
Nor any Queen.
Put ashes on your head, put sackcloth on
And learn to
serve.
You have
fed me with your sweetness, now I am sick,
As I
deserve.
Queens, ladies, angels, women rare,
I have had
enough.
Put
sackcloth on, be crowned with powdery ash,
Be common
stuff.
And serve now woman, serve, as a woman
should,
Implicitly.
Since
I must serve and struggle with the imminent
Mystery.
Serve then, I tell you, add your strength to
mine
Take on this
doom.
What are you
by yourself, do you think, and what
The mere fruit of your
womb?
What is the fruit of your womb then, you
mother,
you
queen,
When it
falls to the ground?
Is it more than the apples of Sodom you scorn
so,
the
men
Who
abound?
Bring forth the sons of your womb then, and put
them
Into the
fire
Of Sodom that
covers the earth; bring them forth
From the womb of your precious
desire.
You woman most holy, you mother, you being
beyond
Question or
diminution,
Add
yourself up, and your seed, to the nought
Of your last
solution.