A Cry to the Beloved

Yestereve I delivered to a star tidings for thee:
"Present," I said, "my service to that moon-like form."
I bowed, I said: "Bear that service to the sun
Who maketh hard rocks gold by his burning."
I bared my breast, I showed it the wounds:
"Give news of me," I said, "to the Beloved whose drink is blood."
I rocked to and fro that the child, my heart, might become still;
A child sleeps when one sways the cradle.
Give my heart-babe milk, relieve us from its weeping,
O Thou that helpest every moment a hundred helpless like me.
The heart's home, first to last, is Thy City of Union:
How long wilt Thou keep in exile this heart forlorn?