Archibald Macleish
The End Of The World
Quite unexpectedly, as Vasserot The armless ambidextrian was lighting A match between his great and second toe, And Ralph the lion was engaged in biting The neck of Madame Sossman while the drum Pointed,
Baccalaureate
A year or two, and grey Euripides, And Horace and a Lydia or so, And Euclid and the brush of Angelo, Darwin on man, Vergilius on bees, The nose and Dialogues of Socrates, Don
Dr. Sigmund Freud Discovers the Sea Shell
Science, that simple saint, cannot be bothered Figuring what anything is for: Enough for her devotions that things are And can be contemplated soon as gathered. She knows how every living thing was fathered,
The Snowflake Which Is Now And Hence Forever
Will it last? he says. Is it a masterpiece? Will generation after generation Turn with reverence to the page? Birdseye scholar of the frozen fish, What would he make of the sole, clean, clear
Two Poems from the War
Oh, not the loss of the accomplished thing! Not dumb farewells, nor long relinquishment Of beauty had, and golden summer spent, And savage glory of the fluttering Torn banners of the rain, and frosty
Poem in Prose
This poem is for my wife. I have made it plainly and honestly: The mark is on it Like the burl on the knife. I have not made it for praise. She has no
An Eternity
There is no dusk to be, There is no dawn that was, Only there’s now, and now, And the wind in the grass. Days I remember of Now in my heart, are now; Days
The Too-Late Born
We too, we too, descending once again The hills of our own land, we too have heard Far off – Ah, que ce cor a longue haleine – The horn of Roland in the
You, Andrew Marvell
And here face down beneath the sun And here upon earth’s noonward height To feel the always coming on The always rising of the night To feel creep up the curving east The earthy
Ars Poetica
A poem should be palpable and mute As a globed fruit, Dumb As old medallions to the thumb, Silent as the sleeve-worn stone Of casement ledges where the moss has grown A poem should