258
PARTISAN REVIEW
In the wind voices mingling mourn aloud
His ravaged"flesh; one whispers that this blood
Shall, lying secret, feed
The germ that nestles darkly in its shell,
Kept to the womb of winter. Sure the wind
Can raise a seed that slumbers to its call
When loudly through the land
Bird-voices join its subtly grieving song;
When melting springs and all the air shall sing
The new-born animal.
A flash of bird-wings from the running ice
Is sign enough. Christ, infant, you were laid
Dumb in the earth, and darkness in our eyes
Made dim your richest blood
That yet shall feed us, though the furtive mind
Know not that death flows secret on such wine:
Being ravaged, we shall rise.
