(I'm swiping this poem, written by Richard Wilbur, from GretchenJoanna's blog. Thank you, GJ, for sharing it! Wilbur, born in 1921, is perhaps my favorite American poet, and still writing poems of depth and excellence, late in life.)
Anterooms
Out of the snowdrift
Which covered it, this pillared
Sundial starts to lift,
Which covered it, this pillared
Sundial starts to lift,
Able now at last
To let its frozen hours
Melt into the past
To let its frozen hours
Melt into the past
In bright, ticking drops.
Time so often hastens by,
Time so often stops–
Time so often hastens by,
Time so often stops–
Still, it strains belief
How an instant can dilate,
Or long years be brief.
How an instant can dilate,
Or long years be brief.
Dreams, which interweave
All our times and tenses, are
What we can believe:
All our times and tenses, are
What we can believe:
Dark they are, yet plain,
Coming to us now as if
Through a cobwebbed pane
Coming to us now as if
Through a cobwebbed pane
Where, before our eyes,
All the living and the dead
Meet without surprise.
All the living and the dead
Meet without surprise.
–Richard Wilbur, in The New Yorker January 5, 2009
No comments:
Post a Comment