Over the Bier of the Worldling
My friends, what can I say,
Having forgotten thew feeling and the time
When it seemed that a dull bod,
That even a dead man could dream
Those small belligerent birds, perhaps one gull,
Turning over the foul
Pond by the colliery,
These waters flickered by a regardless wind,
And the clouds, not of this country,
Sailing, as I had imagined;
Then these faces, even as I am, stilled,
Conforming to the world.
That which I kept, on body
And a few clothes, are brought to following
Processes as of poverty,
Suffering but not knowing,
Lying unimproved by the long season
And the falling rain.
* * *
Epitaph
Death is not information.
Stone that I am,
He came into my quiet
And I shall be still for him.
* * *
The Bones of Palinurus Pray to the North Star
Console us. The wind chooses among us.
Our whiteness is a night wake disordered.
Lone candor, be constant over
Us desolate who gleam no direction.
* * *
Song with the Eyed Closed
I am the shape in sleep
While the seasonal beasts
With petulant rough step
Forsake my random coasts.
I am the face recedes
Though the pool be constant
Whose double kingdom feeds
The sole vein's discontent.
I have seen desire, such
As a violent hand,
Murder my sleep - as much
Is suffered of the wind.
* * *
Carol
Lady, the dew of years
Makes sodden the world
And yet there is no morning.
Lady, we cannot think you
Indifferent or far,
And we lean and call after
You who in the night,
As a morning, among
This our heaviness came
And our eyes called you maiden.
We are in the darkness,
Our eyes turned to the door,
Waiting. Because you passed
Through the room where we are,
Your form not cumbered
with our weight and gesture;
Waiting, because you went
Uncontained by our shadows,
As a light, quietly;
Leaning, as though you might
Come again where our eyes
Are lost that follow after
You who as a light
Through the room where we are
With grace carried a flower.