The Bronze David Of Donatello

A sword in his right hand, a stone in his left hand,

He is naked. Shod and naked. Hatted and naked.

The ribbons of his leaf-wreathed, bronze-brimmed bonnet

Are tasseled; crisped into the folds of frills,

Trills, graces, they lie in separation

Among the curls that lie in separation

Upon the shoulders.

Lightly, as if accustomed,

Loosely, as if indifferent, The boy holds in grace

The stone moulded; somehow, by the fingers, The sword alien, somehow, to the hand.

The boy David

Said of it: "There is none like that."

The boy David's

Body shines in freshness, still unhandled,

And thrusts its belly out a little in exact

Shamelessness. Small, close, complacent,

A labyrinth the gaze retraces,

The rib-case, navel, nipples are the features

Of a face that holds us like the whore Medusa's--

Of a face that, like the genitals, is sexless.

What sex has victory?

The mouth's cut Cupid's-bow, the chin's unwinning dimple

Are tightened, a little oily, take, use, notice:

Centering itself upon itself, the sleek

Body with its too-large head, this green

Fruit now forever g!een, this offending

And efficient elegance draws subtly, supply,

Between the world and itself, a shining

Line of delimitation, demarcation.

The body mirrors itself.

Where the armpit becomes breast,

Becomes back, a great crow's-foot is slashed.

Yet who would gash

The sleek flesh so? the cast, filed, shining flesh?

The cuts are folds: these are the folds of flesh

That closes on itself as a knife closes.

To so much strength, those overborne by it

Seemed girls, and death came to it like a girl,

Came to it, through the soft air, like a bird-

So that the boy is like a girl, is like a bird

Standing on something it has pecked to death.

The boy stands at ease, his hand upon his hip:

The truth of victory. A Victory

Angelic, almost, in indifference,

An angel sent with no message but this triumph

And alone, now, in his triumph,

He looks down at the head and does not see it.

Upon this head

As upon a spire, the boy David dances,

Dances, and is exalted.

Blessed are those brought low

Blessed is defeat, sleep blessed, blessed death.

The right foot is planted on a wing. Bent back in ease

Upon a supple knee--the toes curl a little, grasping

The crag upon which they are set in triumph--

The left leg glides toward, the left foot lies upon

A head. The head's other wing (the head is bearded

And winged and helmeted and bodiless)

Grows like a swan's wing up inside the leg;

Clothes, as the suit of a swan-maiden clothes,

The leg. The wing reaches, almost, to the rounded

Small childish buttocks. The dead wing warms the leg,

The dead wing, crushed beneath the foot, is swan's-down.

Pillowed upon the rock, Goliath's head

Lies under the foot of David.

Strong in defeat, in death rewarded,

The head dreams what has destroyed it

And is untouched by its destruction.

The stone sunk in the forehead, say the Scriptures;

There is no stone in the forehead. The head is helmed

Or else, unguarded, perfect still.

Borne high, borne long, borne in mastery

The head is fallen.

The new light falls

As if in tenderness, upon the face--

Its masses shift for a moment, like an animal,

And settle, misshapen, into sleep: Goliath

Snores a little in satisfaction.

Donatello, DavidBronze. Museo Nazionale, Florence.