IN THE REVIEW

All Our Yesterdays

I need to know who lays claim to my past. Who, of all those I was? The Geneva boy Who learned some Latin hexameters with joy, Lines that the years and decades have erased? That child who searched his father’s library for Exact details, the …

Elegy for a Park

The labyrinth disappeared. The measured rows of eucalyptuses have also vanished, striped canopies of summer and the eternal sleeplessness of the mirror, that repeats every dumbshow of every human face, every ephemeron. The stopped clock, the matted tangle of the honeysuckle, the glorieta …

Poem about Quantity

I think about the scanty Puritan heavens Dotted with lost and solitary lights That Emerson must have seen so many times From the snowdrifts and austerity of Concord. Here where I am, there are too many stars. There are too many men. The innumerable …

For a Version of the I Ching

The future is as irreversible As ironclad yesterday. There is no matter Unless it be a dark and soundless letter Of the eternal Writ no tongue can tell,— Whose book is time. Whoever leaves his house Has already returned. This life we lead Is …

Camden, 1892

The smell of coffee and of newspapers. Sunday and Sunday’s tedium. Morning light, And on the glanced-at page, frivolous and slight, The unveiling of some allegorical verse By a successful colleague. The old man Lies ashen and exhausted in his decorous, Shabby bed-sitting room.