Do not interpretations belong to God?
Rich colour signifies deep inwardness.
The bending sheaves, the sun’s, the moon’s decline
Are colours in this coat, my father’s gift.
Some bleed and blend. Others, like potentates,
Stand out – see! – urgent and peremptory.
All his tall stories, dreams he calls them, stress
His own pre-eminence, its outward sign
That coat he swaggers in … What but that gift
Has he to show? … How his pretension grates,
The smugness posing as authority!
My mordant lust, no matter what he says,
He woke in me. Now I dream his body’s line,
Its nervous thrust imprisoned, and the gift
Of so reading desire his eye translates –
Through cold reflection – heat to chastity.
Amun, we are all, gaudy or poor our dress,
Rich with an inwardness that seals us thine!
I raise this man to greatness for a gift
Beyond such wealth, since what his night creates
His day interprets with lucidity.
I dreamt you had not gone, though dreamt it less
The nearer death I grew. O son of mine,
Now I have found you, death shall be a gift,
And dream and understanding the twin gates
I pass through as I near reality.