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158 pages, Hardcover
First published October 7, 1998
Western Wind
by Anonymous
Western wind, when wilt thou blow?
The small rain down can rain.
Christ, that my love were in my arms,
And I in my bed again
My Grandmother's Love Letters
by Hart Crane
There are no stars tonight
But those of memory.
Yet how much room for memory there is
In the loose girdle of soft rain.
There is even room enough
For the letters of my mother’s mother,
Elizabeth,
That have been pressed so long
Into a corner of the roof
That they are brown and soft,
And liable to melt as snow.
Over the greatness of such space
Steps must be gentle.
It is all hung by an invisible white hair.
It trembles as birch limbs webbing the air.
And I ask myself:
"Are your fingers long enough to play
Old keys that are but echoes:
Is the silence strong enough
To carry back the music to its source
And back to you again
As though to her?"
Yet I would lead my grandmother by the hand
Through much of what she would not understand;
And so I stumble. And the rain continues on the roof
With such a sound of gently pitying laughter.
Teachers
by W.S. Merwin
Pain is in this dark room like many speakers
of a costly set though mute
as here the needle and the turning
the night lengthens it is winter
a new year
what I live for I can seldom believe in
who I love I cannot go to
what I hope is always divided
but I say to myself you are not a child now
if the night is long remember your unimportance
sleep
then toward morning I dream of the first words
of books of voyages
sure tellings that did not start by justifying
yet at one time it seems
had taught me
b o d y
James Merill
Look closely at the letters. Can you see,
entering (stage right), then floating full,
then heading off—so soon—
how like a little kohl-rimmed moon
o plots her course from b to d
—as y, unanswered, knocks at the stage door?
Looked at too long, words fail,
phase out. Ask, now that body shines
no longer, by what light you learn these lines
and what the b and d stood for.