So that you might step inside and be cooled and refreshed,Īnd less yourself than part of everything. It isn’t even the first page of the world.īut the poem wants to flower, like a flower. I will not give them the responsibility for my life. Of anger, of good luck in the deep earth.īut I will not give them the kiss of complicity. I give them–one, two, three, four–the kiss of courtesy, He swaggered before God, there being no one elseīut the iron thing they carried, I will not carry. Was the mossy stream out behind the house,Īs she carried it in her arms, from room to room, Yet the moth has trim, and feistiness, and not a drop Nothing is so delicate or so finely hinged as the wings I stood there once, on the green grass, scattering flowers. There is a graveyard where everything I am talking about is, Then–you still remember–you felt the rap of hunger–it was noon–and you turned from that twilight dream and hurried back to the house, where the table was set, where an uncle patted you on the shoulder for welcome, and there was your place at the table.
You could have stayed there forever, a small child in a corner, on the last raft of hay, dazzled by so much space that seemed empty, but wasn’t. Mostly, though, it was restful and secret, the roof high up and arched, the boards unpainted and plain. Mostly, though, it smelled of milk, and the patience of animals the give-offs of the body were still in the air, a vague ammonia, not unpleasant. Wisps of hay covered the floor, and some wasps sang at the windows, and maybe there was a strange fluttering bird high above, disturbed, hoo-ing a little and staring down from a messy ledge with wild, binocular eyes. You still recall, sometimes, the old barn on your great-grandfather’s farm, a place you visited once, and went into, all alone, while the grownups sat and talked in the house. It is not the mockingbird who, in his own cadence,įrom the branches of the catalpa that are thick with blossoms, Or the trees, or the beetle burrowing into the earth
It is not the blue helmet of the sky afterward, It is not the rain falling out of the purse of God Which is flaring all over the eastern sky
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