Again and again the banks have burst, letting the flood sweep
away my harvest, and wailing and despair have rent my sky from
end to end.

This have I learnt that there are blows of pain in your love,
never the cold apathy of death.



XXXIX

The wall breaks asunder, light, like divine laughter, bursts in.
Victory, O Light!

The heart of the night is pierced!

With your flashing sword cut in twain the tangle of doubt and
feeble desires!

Victory!

Come, Implacable!

Come, you who are terrible in your whiteness.

O Light, your drum sounds in the march of fire, and the red torch
is held on high; death dies in a burst of splendour!