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Christopher Brennan - The Womb Of Night
Work rating: Low

I
 How long delays the miracle blossoming, 
 vermeil and gold, soft fire, flush of the dark, 
 aurora, and ravish of night`s mother ark 
 still hallow`d `neath her present cherishing! 
 The sides of night are anguish`d with this thing, 
 unnatural, a fear, a rending: hark, 
 dim mutterings; the gulfs are strain`d and stark: 
 dark stress, delay, distress, and vanishing. 
 O womb, dark womb that darkenest, what art 
 shall set thee free, and us? or must our heart 
 yet sleep in squalid snowdrifts of the dust? 
 Oh that all ends of the world were come on us, 
 and fire were close beneath earth`s stubborn crust, 
 and all our days were crumbling, ruinous! 

II
 Because this curse is on the dawn, to yield 
 her secrecy distill`d of nuptial tears, 
 and day dismantles, casual, nor reveres 
 whate`er august our brooding dream`d reveal`d; 
 because that night to whom we next appeal`d, 
 no more gestation of inviolate spheres, 
 shameless, is mimic of the day, nor fears 
 the scant occurrence of her stars repeal`d: 
 Therefore, if never in some awful heart 
 a gather`d peace, impregnable, apart, 
 cherish us in that shrine of steadfast fire, 
 be these alone our care, excluding hence 
 some form undesecrate of all desire, 
 the wings of silence, adamantine, dense.
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