Richard Wilbur
Orchard Trees, January
It’s not the case, though some might wish it so Who from a window watch the blizzard blow White riot through their branches vague and stark, That they keep snug beneath their pelted bark.
Juggler
A ball will bounce; but less and less. It’s not A light-hearted thing, resents its own resilience. Falling is what it loves, and the earth falls So in our hearts from brilliance, Settles and
Parable
I read how Quixote in his random ride Came to a crossing once, and lest he lose The purity of chance, would not decide Whither to fare, but wished his horse to choose. For
Puritans
Sidling upon the river, the white boat Has volleyed with its cannon all the morning, Shaken the shore towns like a Judgment warning, Telling the palsied water its demand That the crime come to
A Fire-Truck
Right down the shocked street with a siren-blast That sends all else skittering to the curb, Redness, brass, ladders and hats hurl past, Blurring to sheer verb, Shift at the corner into uproarious gear
A Plain Song For Comadre
Though the unseen may vanish, though insight fails And doubter and downcast saint Join in the same complaint, What holy things were ever frightened off By a fly’s buzz, or itches, or a cough?
A World Without Objects is a Sensible Emptiness
The tall camels of the spirit Steer for their deserts, passing the last groves loud With the sawmill shrill of the locust, to the whole honey of the Arid Sun. They are slow, proud,
Matthew VIII,28 ff
Rabbi, we Gadarenes Are not ascetics; we are fond of wealth and possessions. Love, as You call it, we obviate by means Of the planned release of aggressions. We have deep faith in properity.
The Writer
In her room at the prow of the house Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden, My daughter is writing a story. I pause in the stairwell, hearing >From her shut
The Beautiful Changes
One wading a Fall meadow finds on all sides The Queen Anne’s Lace lying like lilies On water; it glides So from the walker, it turns Dry grass to a lake, as the slightest
Shame
It is a cramped little state with no foreign policy, Save to be thought inoffensive. The grammar of the language Has never been fathomed, owing to the national habit Of allowing each sentence to
In the Smoking Car
The eyelids meet. He’ll catch a little nap. The grizzled, crew-cut head drops to his chest. It shakes above the briefcase on his lap. Close voices breathe, “Poor sweet, he did his best.” “Poor
Worlds
For Alexander there was no Far East, Because he thought the Asian continent India ended. Free Cathay at least Did not contribute to his discontent. But Newton, who had grasped all space, was more
Riddle
Where far in forest I am laid, In a place ringed around by stones, Look for no melancholy shade, And have no thoughts of buried bones; For I am bodiless and bright, And fill
June Light
Your voice, with clear location of June days, Called me outside the window. You were there, Light yet composed, as in the just soft stare Of uncontested summer all things raise Plainly their seeming