To-morrow I fly to Dijon, and to-day
Looking at the Master of Moulin’s
Painting, at that baby in a Burgundy stable
Under his blue-dressed mother’s
Thin astounded fingers,
Chancellor Roland kneeling, his fat dog
On his red robe, Burgundian shepherds
Watching from the green, I say,
As we say innumerably, If
This was so, If this was so,
If so ordinary a thing as a birth
Was so beyond all ordinary births,
If from the ordinary arose that extraordinariness
By which all was pardoned, all absolved,
Resolved. If just a little
Of this worked so-
And know that holding us a descendant, not
Discordant, myth must grow.
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