3

You are going west of the sun now.
You will see there evening light.
You are going west of the sun and
snow will cover up your tracks.

Past my windows passionless
you are going in quiet snow.
Saint of God, beautiful, you
are the quiet light of my soul

but I do not long for your spirit.
Your way is indestructible.
And your hand is pale from holy
kisses, no nail of mine.

By your name I shall not call you.
My hands shall not stretch after you
to your holy waxen face I shall
only bow from afar

standing under the slow falling snow, I shall
fall to my knees in the snow.
In your holy name I shall only
kiss that evening snow

where, with majestic pace you
go by in tomb-like quiet,
the light of quiet holy glory
of it: Keeper of my soul.