(a trifle)
The Flight into Egypt From a blue watering-can I pour Water that tastes of iron on a rose; The wet dirt smells like prayer, The hurried prayers of one Who left by night into a land Unfriendly to their race; her veils Innumerable in layers of soft stars, Sweet blues of silk that angels made Bunched like the petals of a rose Around her face new-mothering, As if Selaphiel had shook the shadows out Like pillows for the comfort of her cheek. I go out in the evening and the rose Looks with me at the blue peace of the stars, And I can see the child More golden than the pharaohs were of old.