II
Like to a country in the interdict
Whose folk lack all the grace of eucharist,
My heart is; all the pangs its foes inflict
Are naught to this unutterable mist
Of absense. Where's the daily sacrament,
The glad devouring of your body and blood,
Sweet soul of Christ, my Lola? I am rent
Even as the demons from the face of God
When they would peer into beatitude.
I am barred from the incalculable bliss,
The unutterable chrism, the soul's food,
Of you, your gaze, your word, your touch, your kiss
O Gods, Fates, Fiends—whoever plays the Pope!
Lift up your curse—leave me not without hope!
Whose folk lack all the grace of eucharist,
My heart is; all the pangs its foes inflict
Are naught to this unutterable mist
Of absense. Where's the daily sacrament,
The glad devouring of your body and blood,
Sweet soul of Christ, my Lola? I am rent
Even as the demons from the face of God
When they would peer into beatitude.
I am barred from the incalculable bliss,
The unutterable chrism, the soul's food,
Of you, your gaze, your word, your touch, your kiss
O Gods, Fates, Fiends—whoever plays the Pope!
Lift up your curse—leave me not without hope!
— 36 —
