And the hordes of silly sheep
Crying, "Baa Baa"
Out of their curious black faces;
And the Scottish cattle with their great horns;
And the chestnut-and-black horses
Leaning into the wind on the very hill-top;
All these are part of Caledon.
Coming out of the little ski cabin,
Under the first few stars
You will say:
"No; nor the green hills of Ireland Couldn't be lovelier!"
You Being Dead (For J. R. T.)
You, being dead, are not aware
That brittle berries strew the ground,
And how the wind, an unleashed hound
Prowls through the wood.
It must be very still and deep
Where you have gone; your gentle sleep
Must be a lovely dreamless thing.
No horns of daybreak reach your rest,
No muffled drums of midnight breast
Your dim retreat … and well I know
You would not stir, beneath the snow.
And yet the first lush rain of Spring
Must speak to you; must dance and sing
Across your heart, though it be still.
The scent of hyacinth must fill
The very earth, the birth of grass
Be like the feet of fauns who pass
In mocking masque among the trees.
Though you should walk elysian fields
I somehow know, that even there
You still must smell the apple trees …
Who found the spring so brief and fair!
Dilemma
You know,
If you were only a book
I'd know what to do about you!
I'd read you … and remember you …
And tuck you away on my book-shelves.
But since you are a bitter sort of magic
That twists me like a silly skein
To fit your latest picture of me
What am I to do about you?