Now comes the evening of the mind. Here are the fireflies twitching in the blood; Here is the shadow moving down the page Where you sit reading by the garden wall. Now the dwarf peach trees, nailed to their trellises, Shudder and droop. You know their voices now, Faintly the martyred peaches crying out Your name, the name nobody knows but you.
I was enriched, not casting after marvels, But as one walking in a usual place, Without desert but common eyes and ears, No recourse but to hear, power but to see, Got to love you of grace.
Subtle musicians, that could body wind, Or contrive strings to anguish, in conceit Random and artless strung a branch with bells,
Moving from Cheer to Joy, from Joy to All, I take a box And add it to my wild rice, my Cornish game hens. The slacked or shorted, basketed, identical Food-gathering flocks Are selves I overlook. Wisdom, said William James,
Is learning what to overlook. And I am wise If that is wisdom.
On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net. Happy porpoises jump in the sea, By the rainspout young sparrows are playing And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be.
On the day the world ends Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas,
I’ll go among the dead to see my friend. The place I leave is beautiful: the sea Repeats the winds’ far swell in its long sound, And, there beside it, houses solemnly Shine with the modest courage of the land, While swimmers try the verge of what they see.
I cannot go, although I should pretend Some final self whose phantom eye could see
Whom should I choose for my Judge? the earnest, impersonal reader, Who, in the work, forgets me and the world and himself!
Ye who have eyes to detect, and Gall to Chastise the imperfect, Have you the heart, too, that loves, feels and rewards the Compleat?
What is the meed of thy Song? 'Tis the ceaseless, the thousandfold Echo Which from the welcoming Hearts of the Pure repeats and prolongs it, Each with a different Tone, compleat or in musical fragments.
Somewhat back from the village street Stands the old-fashioned country-seat. Across its antique portico Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw; And from its station in the hall An ancient timepiece says to all, — "Forever — never! Never — forever!"
Half-way up the stairs it stands, And points and beckons with its hands From its case of massive oak, Like a monk, who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! With sorrowful voice to all who pass, —
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