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Richard Wilbur RIP

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    Richard Wilbur RIP

    First Snow in Alsace

    The snow came down last night like moths
    Burned on the moon; it fell till dawn,
    Covered the town with simple cloths.

    Absolute snow lies rumpled on
    What shellbursts scattered and deranged,
    Entangled railings, crevassed lawn.

    As if it did not know they'd changed,
    Snow smoothly clasps the roofs of homes
    Fear-gutted, trustless and estranged.

    The ration stacks are milky domes;
    Across the ammunition pile
    The snow has climbed in sparkling combs.

    You think: beyond the town a mile
    Or two, this snowfall fills the eyes
    Of soldiers dead a little while.

    Persons and persons in disguise,
    Walking the new air white and fine,
    Trade glances quick with shared surprise.

    At children's windows, heaped, benign,
    As always, winter shines the most,
    And frost makes marvelous designs.

    The night guard coming from his post,
    Ten first-snows back in thought, walks slow
    And warms him with a boyish boast:

    He was the first to see the snow.
    An English teacher showed me that a long time ago and I never forgot it.

    Wilbur just died aged 96 he was a good guy.

    #2
    He very much was.

    96 is a very good innings, but he will be missed.

    Comment


      #3
      That's a beautiful poem

      Comment


        #4
        Isn't it just.

        another

        us
        Love Calls Us to the Things of This World
        BY RICHARD WILBUR
        The eyes open to a cry of pulleys,
        And spirited from sleep, the astounded soul
        Hangs for a moment bodiless and simple
        As false dawn.
        Outside the open window
        The morning air is all awash with angels.

        Some are in bed-sheets, some are in blouses,
        Some are in smocks: but truly there they are.
        Now they are rising together in calm swells
        Of halcyon feeling, filling whatever they wear
        With the deep joy of their impersonal breathing;

        Now they are flying in place, conveying
        The terrible speed of their omnipresence, moving
        And staying like white water; and now of a sudden
        They swoon down into so rapt a quiet
        That nobody seems to be there.
        The soul shrinks

        From all that it is about to remember,
        From the punctual rape of every blessèd day,
        And cries,
        “Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry,
        Nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam
        And clear dances done in the sight of heaven.”

        Yet, as the sun acknowledges
        With a warm look the world’s hunks and colors,
        The soul descends once more in bitter love
        To accept the waking body, saying now
        In a changed voice as the man yawns and rises,
        “Bring them down from their ruddy gallows;
        Let there be clean linen for the backs of thieves;
        Let lovers go fresh and sweet to be undone,
        And the heaviest nuns walk in a pure floating
        Of dark habits,
        keeping their difficult balance.”

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