Marie Under

Ah, earthly life burns in a myriad splendours

Not even death’s dark hazard can destroy.

I yield, a willing prisoner, to joy;

I never sorted with discreet pretenders.

And as the shaken glaucous wave engenders

Spindrift, so my green falling silks deploy

A froth, and all is stripped to the last toy,

And, caught in ecstasy, my sense surrenders.

Why does the blossom wanton in the light,

The blue horizon lure me to its border?

My body too is of their bent and order:

My every nerve vibrates to rapt delight,

And I distrain my life of its last treasure

As if my mounting days had brimmed their measure.

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