rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


The half moon is at meridian. Still damp, the dim trees exude their scent, enlivening the cold air. Every few seconds, accumulated water drips from leaf tip to lower leaf with a soft plop. No other sounds break the Sunday morning stillness until I walk, and my footsteps echo in the darkness, and I imagine they can be heard clear to the drifting dome of thin clouds.


by Richard Wilbur

Meridians are a net
Which catches nothing; that sea-scampering bird
The gull, though shores lapse every side from sight, can yet
Sense him to land, but Hanno had not heard

Hesperidean song,
Had he not gone by watchful periploi;
Chalk rocks, and isles like beasts, and mountain stains along
The water-hem, calmed him at last near-by

The clear high hidden chant
Blown from the spellbound coast, where under drifts
Of sunlight, under plated leaves, they guard the plant
By praising it. Among the wedding gifts

Of Here, were a set
Of golden McIntoshes, from the Greek
Imagination. Guard and gild what's common, and forget
Uses and prices and names; have objects speak.

There's classic and there's quaint,
And then there's that devout intransitive eye
Of Pieter de Hooch: see feinting from his plot of paint
The trench of light on boards, the much-mended dry

Courtyard wall of brick,
And sun submerged in beer, and streaming in glasses,
The weave of a sleeve, the careful and undulant tile. A quick
Change of the eye and all this calmly passes

Into a day, into magic.
For is there any end to true textures, to true
Integuments; do they ever desist from tacit, tragic
Fading away? Oh, maculate, cracked, askew,

Gay-pocked and potsherd world
I voyage, where in every tangible tree
I see float among the leaves, all calm and curled,
The Cheshire smile which sets me fearfully free.

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