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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395674" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Tenebrae</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">He was so tired that he was scarcely able to hear a note of the songs: he felt imprisoned in a cold region where his brain was numb and his spirit was isolated.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">1</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Requite this angel whose <br>flushed and thirsting face <br>stoops to the sacrifice <br>out of which it arose. <br>This is the lord Eros<br>of grief who pities<br>no one; it is<br>Lazarus with his sores.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>2</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And you, who with your soft but searching voice <br>drew me out of the sleep where I was lost, <br>who held me near your heart that I might rest <br>confiding in the darkness of your choice: <br>possessed by you I chose to have no choice, <br>fulfilled in you I sought no further quest. <br>You keep me, now, in dread that quenches trust, <br>in desolation where my sins rejoice. <br>As I am passionate so you with pain <br>turn my desire; as you seem passionless <br>so I recoil from all that I would gain, <br>wounding myself upon forgetfulness, <br>false ecstasies, which you in truth sustain <br>as you sustain each item of your cross.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>3</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Veni Redemptor, but not in our time. <br>Christus Resurgens, quite out of this world. <br>‘Ave’ we cry; the echoes are returned. <br>Amor Carnalis is our dwelling-place.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>4</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O light of light, supreme delight; <br>grace on our lips to our disgrace. <br>Time roosts on all such golden wrists; <br>our leanness is our luxury.<br>Our love is what we love to have; <br>our faith is in our festivals.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>5</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Stupefying images of grief-in-dream, <br>succubae to my natural grief of heart, <br>cling to me, then; you who will not desert <br>your love nor lose him in some blank of time. <br>You come with all the licence of her name <br>to tell me you are mine. But you are not <br>and she is not. Can my own breath be hurt<br>by breathless shadows groaning in their game? <br>It can. The best societies of hell<br>acknowledge this, aroused by what they know: <br>consummate rage recaptured there in full <br>as faithfulness demands it, blow for blow, <br>and rectitude that mimics its own fall <br>reeling with sensual abstinence and woe.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>6</div><div style="margin:10px 0">This is the ash-pit of the lily-fire,<br>this is the questioning at the long tables, <br>this is true marriage of the self-in-self, <br>this is a raging solitude of desire, <br>this is the chorus of obscene consent, <br>this is a single voice of purest praise.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>7</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He wounds with ecstasy. All<br>the wounds are his own.<br>He wears the martyr’s crown.<br>He is the Lord of Misrule.<br>He is the Master of the Leaping Figures, <br>the motley factions.<br>Revelling in auguries<br>he is the Weeper of the Valedictions.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>8</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Music survives, composing her own sphere, <br>Angel of Tones, Medusa, Queen of the Air, <br>and when we would accost her with real cries <br>silver on silver thrills itself to ice.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Geoffrey+Hill">Geoffrey Hill</a><div class=q>
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Requite this angel whose 
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