Classic Poem

That wan, open look the woods have—
glaucous, old-bronze, grey-black,
like the bare grate
after October's wildfire (while
rectangular fields, in their mock-Spring,
riot in the frosty light,
greener than ever). . . . Inevitably
it comes to mind: “That time of year
thou mayst in me behold…”
Only
I for one wouldn't go from here
to a plea for love—for those
wild scarlets and yellows again. . . . No,
beyond all those, it seems,
there was this cold clarity
everything aimed at, although
no more aware of it then
than exempt from it now.











By permission of the author.