I am Saint John on Patmos of my heart Towered and tabernacled with illusion; Black Michaels and gold Satans stand at hand Gulling me with their gestures of temptation To bring me down from the marvelous mountains Where in Babylonian gardens I find Spinoza's face hanging from every tree Murmuring love of all our kith and kind: Or I feel, cold as a draught on my arm, The spiralling universe like a worm Coiling for comfort; and in my mind The three-winged dove among my dreams Moaning for its apocalyptic home. |