Sestina
September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.
She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rains that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,
It's time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle's small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac
on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.
It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.
But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in front of the house.
Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvellous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.
--Elizabeth Bishop
I saw my soul at rest upon a day
As a bird
sleeping in the nest of night,
Among soft leaves that give the
starlight way
To touch
its wings but not its eyes with light;
So that it knew as one in visions
may,
And knew
not as men waking, of delight.
This was the measure of my soul's
delight;
It had
no power of joy to fly by day,
Nor part in the large lordship
of the light;
But in a secret moon-beholden
way
Had all its will of dreams and pleasant night,
And all the love and
life that sleepers may.
But such life's triumph as men waking may
It might not have
to feed its faint delight
Between the stars by night and sun by day,
Shut up with green
leaves and a little light;
Because its way was as a lost star's way,
A world's not wholly
known of day or night.
All loves and dreams and sounds and gleams
of night
Made it all music
that such minstrels may,
And all they had they gave it of delight;
But in the full face
of the fire of day
What place shall be for any starry light,
What part of heaven
in all the wide sun's way?
Yet the soul woke not, sleeping by the way,
Watched as a nursling
of the large-eyed night,
And sought no strength nor knowledge of the
day,
Nor closer touch conclusive
of delight,
Nor mightier joy nor truer than dreamers may,
Nor more of song than
they, nor more of light.
For who sleeps once and sees the secret light
Whereby sleep shows
the soul a fairer way
Between the rise and rest of day and night,
Shall care no more
to fare as all men may,
But be his place of pain or of delight,
There shall he dwell,
beholding night as day.
Song, have thy day and take thy fill of light
Before the night be
fallen across thy way;
Sing while he may, man hath no long delight.
--A. C. Swinburne