rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Before Dawn Dims the Wonder

The low angle of the summer moonbeams attenuates shadows. Trees cast twice their length of darkness to conceal pavement, lawn and rooftop, while gaps among them allow the light to fall in swaths and patches. All which is not lit gathers together, and all which catches light leaps forth, but is less distinct in detail than by day. It is like some submerged landscape finding its way to the surface, the limpid light glistening like water where it strikes leaves or grass blades. A strip of rough board fence has emerged, laced with strands of vine, dark flowers crowding its base. Ordinary by day, the fence is strange in this light, seeming more a natural growth than the work of hands. And so the corner of a house now revealed, which might be some face of rock broken square. Even the patch of driveway lying between two shadows might be a stretch of dark stream, barely moving, its depths concealing darting fish and swaying water weeds. All the scene is still, and the town wrapped in silence, and only the slow movement of the moon from branch to branch reveals that time has not stopped.



Sunday Verse


Love Calls Us to the Things of This World

by Richard Wilbur

    The eyes open to a cry of pulleys,
And spirited from sleep, the astounded soul
Hangs for a moment bodiless and simple
As false dawn.
              Outside the open window
The morning air is all awash with angels.

    Some are in bed-sheets, some are in blouses,
Some are in smocks: but truly there they are.
Now they are rising together in calm swells
Of halcyon feeling, filling whatever they wear
With the deep joy of their impersonal breathing;

    Now they are flying in place, conveying
The terrible speed of their omnipresence, moving
And swaying like white water; and now of a sudden
They swoon down into so rapt a quiet
That nobody seems to be there.
                              The soul shrinks

    From all that it is about to remember,
From the punctual rape of every blessed day,
And cries,
          "Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry,
Nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam
And clear dances done in the sight of heaven."

    Yet, as the sun acknowledges
With a warm look the earth's hunks and colors,
The  soul descends once more in bitter love
To accept the waking body, saying now
In a changed voice as the man yawns and rises,

    "Bring them down from their ruddy gallows;
Let there be clean linen for the backs of thieves;
Let lovers go fresh and sweet to be undone,
And the heaviest nuns walk in a pure floating
Of dark habits,
               keeping their difficult balance."
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