Tuesday, 2 July 2013

W. S. Merwin

  1. The ice again in my sleep as it was following someone
       it thought was me in the dark and I recognized its white
    it held me in its freezing radiance until I
       was the only tree there and I broke and carried
    my limbs down through dark rocks calling to the summer
       where are you where will you be how could I have missed you
    gold skin the still pond shining under the eglantines
       warm peach hanging in my palm at noon among flowers
    all the way I was looking for you and I had nothing to show
       until the last day of the world then far below I could see
    the great valley as night fell the one ray withdrawing
       like the note of a horn and afterwards black wind took
    all I knew but here is the foreign morning with its clouds
       sailing on water beyond the black trembling poplars
    the sky breathless around its blinding fire and the white flocks
       in water meadows on the far shore are flowing past their
    silent shepherds only once now I hear the hammer
       ring on the anvil and where I cannot see it
    a bird of the ice is singing of its own country
       if any of this remains it will not be me

     “Hölderlin at the River”

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