Womb swollen, joy close-confined shamefaced lest
Judged profane the bright herald’s swift advent
In flesh and blood, nor flesh nor blood’s descent.
Things germane leap to hear my voice, pregnant
Its timbre with meek mild magnificence,
Possessed of a burden, that weariness
Of the lead world makes light of. Wyrd-driven, sent
Without men’s wall, I scarcely know or care -
For love, a pain-expected birth, is borne
In shower of gold, and without travail, there
I look upon a God of glory shorn.
This pen’s a sword that severs with a smart
And pierces sore love’s bearer to the heart.