Devotion

Not lost from my young years Is silent devotion to a sound of bells, To all churches' dusking altars And their blue domes heaven-wide. To an organ's tune at evening, To wide squares fading in darkness, And to a fountain that splashes, softly and quietly And sweetly, like unintelligible children's babbling. I see myself dreaming silently, folding the hands, And whispering prayers forgotten for a long time, And early gloom sombering my glance. Since a woman's picture gleams Out of confused shapes, wreathed by sinister grief, And pours into me the chalice of nefarious shudders.