Pavana Dolorosa
Loves I allow and passions I approve:
Ash-Wednesday feasts, ascetic opulence,
the wincing lute, so real in its pretence,
itself a passion amorous of love.
Self-wounding martyrdom, what joys you have,
true-torn among this fictive consonance,
music's creation of the moveless dance,
the decreation to which all must move.
Self-seeking hunter of forms, there is no end
to such pursuits. None can revoke your cry
Your silence is an ecstasy of sound
And your nocturnals blaze upon the day.
I founder in desire for things unfound.
I stay amid the things that will not stay.
Geoffrey Hill, Tenebrae
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