И это не выкладывал оказывается. (Формула "Christ the X" передаёт приветы Сами Знаете Кому.)
Unluckily for a Death
by Dylan ThomasUnluckily for a death Waiting with phoenix under The pyre yet to be lighted of my sins and days, And for the woman in shades Saint carved and sensual among the scudding Dead and gone, dedicate forever to my self Though the brawl of the kiss has not occurred On the clay cold mouth, on the fire Branded forehead, that could bind Her constant, nor the winds of love broken wide To the wind the choir and cloister Of the wintry nunnery of the order of lust Beneath my life, that sighs for the seducer's coming In the sun strokes of summer, Loving on this sea banged guilt My holy lucky body Under the cloud against love is caught and held and kissed In the mill of the midst Of the descending day, the dark our folly, Cut to the still star in the order of the quick But blessed by such heroic hosts in your every Inch and glance that the wound Is certain god, and the ceremony of souls Is celebrated there, and communion between suns. Never shall my self chant About the saint in shades while the endless breviary Turns of your prayed flesh, nor shall I shoo the bird below me: The death biding two lie lonely. I see the tigron in tears In the androgynous dark, His striped and noon maned tribe striding to holocaust, The she mules bear their minotaurs, The duck-billed platypus broody in a milk of birds. I see the wanting nun saint carved in a garb Of shades, symbol of desire beyond my hours And guilts, great crotch and giant Continence. I see the unfired phoenix, herald And heaven crier, arrow now of aspiring And the renouncing of islands. All love but for the full assemblage in flower Of the living flesh is monstrous or immortal, And the grave its daughters. Love, my fate got luckily, Teaches with no telling That the phoenix' bid for heaven and the desire after Death in the carved nunnery Both shall fail if I bow not to your blessing Nor walk in the cool of your mortal garden With immortality at my side like Christ the sky. This I know from the native Tongue of your translating eyes. The young stars told me, Hurling into beginning like Christ the child. Lucklessly she must lie patient And the vaulting bird be still. O my true love, hold me. In your every inch and glance is the globe of genesis spun, And the living earth your sons.