The exceeding brightness of this early sun
Makes me conceive how dark I have become,
And re-illumines things that used to turn
To gold in broadest blue, and be a part
Of a turning spirit in an earlier self.
That, too, returns from out the winter’s air,
Like an hallucination come to daze
The corner of the eye. Our element,
Cold is our element and winter’s air
Brings voices as of lions coming down.
Oh! Rabbi, rabbi, fend my soul for me.
And true savant of this dark nature be
© 2023 The Catholic Thing. All rights reserved. For reprint rights, write to: [email protected] The Catholic Thing is a forum for intelligent Catholic commentary. Opinions expressed by writers are solely their own.