Eve walks in beauty midst the night—
disclosed in dark delicately.
Illumined dim, as by candle light.
Benighted, yet not hidden full.
Her beauty, bright beauty, is too bold
for the darkness to annul.
She walks in beauty untold
— with whimsicality, sublimely ‘spressed.
—with "waves in every golden tress."
—with two scars revealed:
a healer, healing and healed.
—with ev’r new light dealing, and dealed.
Eve walks in beauty dressed,
and her beauty is sealing, unsealed.
I remember you – who you are.
I remember – never to forget!
I remember everything still, and yet
I remember more – more by far:
grace illumines your dawning star.
You walk in beauty like a woman can:
rough hewn, but curvy and warm --
like a beach castle of hot summer sand
blown upon mildly by a gathering storm.
You, like a woman, ever new and strange:
surprise ev’n surprise with jovial disdain.
I remember things forgotten, things to be.
I remember you.
I remember, and hold the real you in memory.
I remember Eve: who she was, and is.
You, my dear, must remember this –
if and when you forget – as wont to do –
and get lost in false faces of false memory.
Then, right then, to yourself be true.
Remember me remembering you.
If ever you are by yourself despised –
then, remember, at once,
to see through my eyes.
If ever you struggle in doing to be –
Then, stop, and remember my memory.
I remember Eve before the Fall.
I remember everything. I remember all.
Desperate I, she was taken from my side,
fashioned by God to be my bride;
in a moment too latent,
– not a moment too late!
In her, Adam rests; in her confides.
In her, he was stronger; in her, he was great.
She was there, fitting me, a fitting queen:
with crowned brow, a princess beset
in natural robes of shameless majesty.
I remember! God himself stated,
“I will make a help, meet.”
I remember the first time – so sweet
still – we met in green garden unshaded.
I remember, and I am elated.
I see her, newly formed; formed shapely.
I see her form still, rising by degrees –
emerging, a woman; emerging is she.
I see her approach in the emerald wood:
brought hither by God, hither for good.
In likeness, like me, but distinctly distinct.
I could not describe her. She is succinct
like a poem, with meaning expanding.
Her rhymes e’r deep – beyond understanding.
Her meter is perfect; her diction, commanding.
She – in beautious verses – converses, with skill.
She with beauty converses, converses at will.
In like, she is lovely, and lovelier still –
but loveliest, when in love standing.
She’s poetry, and poetry demanding.
I remember her moves, her stately walk:
the things of which she dreamed;
the dreams of which she talked.
I remember she wove works in beams
of lovely, delicate, and perfect lines.
I remember – I swear – her clear eyes:
fierce in truth, yet frail and fine;
unstained by tears, by sin, by lies.
I remember everything! How Eve
was a miracle, lover, and mother.
How she, by God, could even weave
life in her womb; sisters, brothers
were by her, by God, shaped and created.
Her children are here, her children awaited.
I remember you, and Eve, and praise her.
Remember! And engrave – fact undebated:
you are Eve’s heir; her child; her daughter.
You are, like her, with soft strength sated.
You are, like her, a queen and life-giver;
ordained, like her, beauty to deliver.
Your beauty, so precious, can launch wars,
and a thousand ships from a distant shore,
and drive men to kill and be killed.
Yet, your beauty, by grace, can still and be stilled.
And such beauty, so gracious, can heal all strife,
and nurture peace, and law, and life.
You walk in beauty midst the night.
Eve yet walks, and brings Adam delight.
You walk in beauty like a woman can –
my rib re-formed in Yahweh’s hands.
All this said – I’ve not said all.
I’ve only begun, and with a slow start
to tell about Eve, her graces, and heart.
What of her noble feminine mind?
What of her hands, small and kind?
What of her curves? Her girlish glee?
What of her wit? Her dignity?
What of her nurturing form? Her eyes?
What of her soft skin? Her gentle sighs?
What, indeed!? What man can say?
How many poets tried – how many ways?
All – Shakespeare, Keats, Byron, Blake – all tried
to write Eve’s glory; all were denied.
If we’re honest, they failed, as poets of Eve.
Their attempts, all noble, were yet ill conceived.
They didn’t say enough, well enough, by far.
They fell as children on earth lunging for stars.
And, who am I, when compared to such writers?
If they were untrue – I’m worse – a liar –
to think that I, in their wake, could describe her.
I begin, alas, to see, I’m just a man.
Eve is a secret only God understands.