Our Sunday morning when dawn-priests were applying <br />Wafer and wine to the human wound, we laid <br />Ourselves to cure ourselves down: I'm afriad <br />Our vestments wanted, but Francis' friends were crying <br />In the nave of pines, sun-satisfied, and flying <br />Subtle as angels about the barricade <br />Boughs made over us, deep in a bed half made <br />Needle-soft, half the sea of our simultaneous dying. <br /> <br />'Death is the mother of beauty.' Awry no leaf <br />Shivering with delight, we die to be well.. <br />Careless with sleepy love, so long unloving. <br />What if our convalescence must be bried <br />As we are, the matin meet the passing bell?.. <br />About our pines our sister, wind, is moving.<br /><br />John Berryman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/our-sunday-morning-when-dawn-priests-were-applyi/
