Stanley Kunitz(b. 1905)
He
He runs before the wise men: he
Is moving on the hills like snow.
No gifts, no tears, no company
He brings, but wind-rise and water-flow.
In meadows of descended day
His motion leans, dividing air:
He takes the unforgiving way
Beneath the apostolic star.2
She who has known him calls him stranger,
Parting the night's long hair, he steals
Within the heart, that humble manger
Where the white, astonished spirit kneels.
His vertical inflicting pride,
Whose shadow cuts the nib of space,
Bends to this virtue fructified.3
But though he kiss the little face
Like rapture breaking on the mind,
The necessary fierce details
Implacably he has designed.
Redemption hangs upon the nails.
1928, 19581930, 1958