Let us regard the arduous drafts
Of that first innominate sonnet,
The arbitrary page on which are blent
Tercets and quatrains peccant.
Slowly polishing his rigors
He pauses. Perhaps he hears
Coming from the future's holy dread
A remote rumor of nightingales.
Did he feel himself unalone,
That arcane, incredible Apollo
Had revealed an archetype to him,
An arid cystal that would catch
Whatsoever night closes or day opes:
Dædalus, labyrinth, enigma, Oedipus?
Translated by Christopher Mulrooney