Phoenix, nursling of Death,
How wondrous is thy birth!
Thou gainest not thy breath
I' nest, like birds of Earth:
'Mid fire all flaming hot
Thou strangely art begot;
The leaping flames thee cherish
When thou seem'st to perish.
Lo, Death thy midwife is;
Lo, thyself thou bearest.
O tell me how is this,
That mystery thou preparest?
Thou mother of thyself!
Thou daughter of thyself!
When thy 'pointed hour is done,
Thou an od'rous nest entwinest;
And, as for thy destruction,
Thou 'midst its fires reclinest.
Most surely thou'rt consum'd;
Most surely thou'rt relum'd.
O fruitful Death!
O gainful Death!
Live then, self-contained bird;
Most pleasing wonder.
The old legend is absurd;
But truth lies under. G.