The one long night which rolls around the world has given way to the one long day. For the time of its present passage, we call it Sunday here. Despite the fact that it is the same day it has always been, I still mark it with this:
A CLASSICAL QUATRAIN
by Paul Goodman
For rage and dignity no words compare
with the Atlantic Ocean lashed by winds;
the love-gestures of juveniles are sweeter
than any words of mine. But for alcaic
speed and in the end a pat surprise
you must read Horace. John, the fertile fields
and the repetitive factories produce,
though may other things, no metaphors.
Sure, many a labor is heavier to do
and profit by than stanzas, but these are
my skill; shall I ungratefully
my gift of formal speech disdain?
By literature Sheharazad a thousand
midnights his prone violence appeased,
the homicidal hurry in his soul
embarrassed into an uncertain smile.
