Every summerI listen and look under the sun’s brass and eveninto the moonlight, but I can’t hearanything, I can’t see anything — not the pale roots digging down, nor the green stalks muscling up,nor the leavesdeepening their damp pleats,nor the tassels making,nor the shucks, nor the cobs.And still,every day,the leafy fieldsgrow taller and thicker — green gowns lofting up in the night,showered with silk. And so, every summer,I fail as a witness, seeing nothing — I am deaf tooto the tick of the leaves, the tapping of downwardness from the banyan feet — all of ithappeningbeyond any seeable proof, or hearable hum. And, therefore, let the immeasurable come.Let the unknowable touch the buckle of my spine.Let the wind turn in the trees,and the mystery hidden in the dirtswing through the air.How could I look at anything in this worldand tremble, and grip my hands over my heart?What should I fear? One morningin the leafy green oceanthe honeycomb of the corn’s beautiful bodyis sure to be there.
To look at the river made of time and water
And remember that time is another river,
To know that we are lost like the river
And that faces dissolve like water.
To be aware that waking dreams it is not asleep
While it is another dream, and that the death
That our flesh goes in fear of is that death
Which comes every night and is called sleep.
To see in the day or in the year a symbol
Of the days of man and of his years,
To transmute the outrage of the years
Into a music, a murmur of voices, and a symbol,
To See in death sleep, and in the sunset
A sad gold—such is poetry,
Which is immortal and poor. Poetry
Returns like the dawn and the sunset.
At times in the evenings a face
Looks at us out of the depths of a mirror;
Art should be like that mirror
Which reveals to us our own face.
They say that Ulysses, sated with marvels,
Wept tears of love at the sight of his Ithaca,
Green and humble. Art is that Ithaca
Of green eternity, not of marvels.
It is also like the river with no end
That flows and remains and is the mirror of one same
Inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
And is another, like the river with no end.