<h2> A Blue Valentine </h2>
<h3> (For Aline) </h3>
<p>Monsignore,<br/>
Right Reverend Bishop Valentinus,<br/>
Sometime of Interamna, which is called Ferni,<br/>
Now of the delightful Court of Heaven,<br/>
I respectfully salute you,<br/>
I genuflect<br/>
And I kiss your episcopal ring.<br/>
<br/>
It is not, Monsignore,<br/>
The fragrant memory of your holy life,<br/>
Nor that of your shining and joyous martyrdom,<br/>
Which causes me now to address you.<br/>
But since this is your august festival, Monsignore,<br/>
It seems appropriate to me to state<br/>
According to a venerable and agreeable custom,<br/>
That I love a beautiful lady.<br/>
Her eyes, Monsignore,<br/>
Are so blue that they put lovely little blue reflections<br/>
On everything that she looks at,<br/>
Such as a wall<br/>
Or the moon<br/>
Or my heart.<br/>
It is like the light coming through blue stained glass,<br/>
Yet not quite like it,<br/>
For the blueness is not transparent,<br/>
Only translucent.<br/>
Her soul's light shines through,<br/>
But her soul cannot be seen.<br/>
It is something elusive, whimsical, tender, wanton, infantile, wise<br/>
And noble.<br/>
She wears, Monsignore, a blue garment,<br/>
Made in the manner of the Japanese.<br/>
It is very blue —<br/>
I think that her eyes have made it more blue,<br/>
Sweetly staining it<br/>
As the pressure of her body has graciously given it form.<br/>
Loving her, Monsignore,<br/>
I love all her attributes;<br/>
But I believe<br/>
That even if I did not love her<br/>
I would love the blueness of her eyes,<br/>
And her blue garment, made in the manner of the Japanese.<br/>
<br/>
Monsignore,<br/>
I have never before troubled you with a request.<br/>
The saints whose ears I chiefly worry with my pleas<br/>
are the most exquisite and maternal Brigid,<br/>
Gallant Saint Stephen, who puts fire in my blood,<br/>
And your brother bishop, my patron,<br/>
The generous and jovial Saint Nicholas of Bari.<br/>
But, of your courtesy, Monsignore,<br/>
Do me this favour:<br/>
When you this morning make your way<br/>
To the Ivory Throne that bursts into bloom with roses<br/>
because of her who sits upon it,<br/>
When you come to pay your devoir to Our Lady,<br/>
I beg you, say to her:<br/>
"Madame, a poor poet, one of your singing servants yet on earth,<br/>
Has asked me to say that at this moment he is especially grateful to you<br/>
For wearing a blue gown."<br/></p>
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