Once I read in foreign books
of the time of Michelangelo.
That was a man beyond measure--a giant--
who forgot what the immeasurable was.
He was the kind of man who turns
to bring forth the meaning of an age
that wants to end.
He lifts its whole weight
and heaves it into the chasm of his heart.
The anguish and yearning of all those before him
become in his hands raw matter
for him to compress into one great work.
Only God escapes his will-- a God
he loves with a high hatred
for being so out of reach.
I,29 from the Book of Hours; Love Poems to God trns. Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy
