Victory. It has come late, I had not learnt <br />how to arrive, like the lily, at will, <br />the white figure, that pierces <br />the motionless eternity of earth, <br />pushing at clear, faint, form, <br />till the hour strikes: that clay, <br />with a white ray, or a spur of milk. <br />Shedding of clothing, the thick darkness of soil, <br />on whose cliff the fair flower advances, <br />till the flag of its whiteness <br />defeats the contemptible deep of night, <br />and, from the motion of light, <br />spills itself in astonished seed.<br /><br />Pablo Neruda<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/enigma-with-flower/
