Spanish literature may be unique in the fact that one of its foundational poets — its Shakespeare, its Goethe, its Villon — was a Carmelite mystic and a Doctor of the Church. Saint John of the Cross had decided to enter a silent monastery, after which only God would have heard his poetry, but on a trip to Medina del Campo in 1567, he met Teresa of Ávila, a woman so overwhelming that no one escaped an encounter with her unscathed. Drawn into the Carmelite world, he poured out the mystical poetry that became part of the foundation of Spanish literature: No John of the Cross, no Garcia Lorca — or any other of the great poets who followed in his wake. In honor of his June 24 birthday, The Sun presents “One Darkest Night,” translated by the award-winning Rhina P. Espaillat (whose own poem “Prosody” appeared earlier in our pages). In the poem, the reader can discern the sexual imagery he used for the encounter with God, the sense of nature, and, above all, the glorious loss of self he felt in the ecstatic transport to the divine.

One Darkest Night
by St. John of the Cross
translated by Rhina P. Espaillat

One darkest night I went, 
aflame with love’s devouring eager burning — 
O fortunate event! — 
no witnesses discerning, 
the house now still from which my steps were turning.

Hidden by darkness, bent 
on flight, disguised, down secret steps sojourning — 
O fortunate event!
Hidden by dark, and yearning, 
the house now still from which my steps were turning;

In that most blissful night, 
in secrecy, since none had seen my going, 
nor did I pause for sight, 
nor had I light, for showing 
the route, but that which in my heart was glowing.

This only did the guiding, 
surer than the blaze when noonday shone, 
to where he was abiding — 
who was to me well known — 
where we would be together and alone.

O night that led me true, 
O night more fair than morning’s earliest shining, 
O night that wrought from two —
lover, beloved entwining — 
beloved and lover one in their combining!

On my new-flowered breast, 
to him alone and wholly sanctified, 
he leaned and lay at rest; 
his pleasure was my guide, 
and cedars to the wind their scent supplied.

Down from the tower, breezes 
came, while soft fingers winnowed through his hair; 
a touch that wounds and pleases 
caressed my throat with air, 
leaving every sense suspended there.

I stayed, all else forgetting, 
inclined toward the beloved, face to face; 
all motion halted, letting 
care vanish with no trace, 
forgotten in the lilies of that place.

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With “Poem of the Day,” The New York Sun offers a daily portion of verse selected by Joseph Bottum with the help of the North Carolina poet Sally Thomas, the Sun’s associate poetry editor. Tied to the day, or the season, or just individual taste, the poems will be typically drawn from the lesser-known portion of the history of English verse. In the coming months we will be reaching out to contemporary poets for examples of current, primarily formalist work, to show that poetry can still serve as a delight to the ear, an instruction to the mind, and a tonic for the soul.