Winter Garden, by Vincent van Gogh
The knight rides forth in coal-black steel
into the teeming world.
Outside his armor everything is there: sunlight and valley,
friend and foe and feast,
May, maiden, forest and grail,
and God himself in a thousand forms
to be found along every road.
But inside the armor darkly enclosing him
crouches death. And the thought comes
and comes again:
When will the blade
pierce this iron sheath,
the undeserved and liberating blade
that will fetch me from my hiding place
where I've been so long compressed—
so that, at last, I may stretch my limbs
and hear my full voice.
Book of Images