|I wish he were the polar star in heaven,
or the little Pleiads seven,
And I would be the best astronomer
that ever watched for even.
I wish he were the sun from East to West-
even for me to see…what of the rest?-
I would not grudge their share, or mind…
or if he were the wind,
Then he would seek out sometimes , even me.
Or if he were a bird of any kind
I´d have his cry so fair
I´d lure him into any snare-
And then, Would I not free him?
But since nowhere I see him
Sometimes , In my sad breast,
I wish him dead, best.
(This poem gives me the creepies, I imagine Blanaid as some velvet -gloved gothic killer with kindness and the overt freudian slippages!) I am historically ´non-linear´ or do not trace the time of a poet to build up a context, this is a dark and vicious little poem that has all the tenderness of a cat playing a mouse to death before the final kill.