My rib, plucked in a season when no swelling of time
Had ever seared the brown earth with its tears of wet fire,
Is what I should be.
Her diamonds, her gold, all that she would
Offer as ransom for the life of her children,
Are not stones glistening nor the metal of the sun
But what primeval in God's mind was formed:
Her soul.
My hand in hers, (more than my hand is hers),
And no blow of icy wind, sharp as steely knives enough,
Can carve what, if God's mind can be changed,
He has forged; that is to say: Never.
So it really is that Adam never lost a rib,
And tonight mine is mine.
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