May Sarton

Now we are able only to graph the flight;

For we never actually rose from the ground,

By Moonlight
We are true lovers without hope

Whose hearts are locked to time,

So lie with me on the grassy sward

On the cool black-shadowed slope,

For we’ll not sleep in a close warm room:

Whatever we are moving toward

An ample bed’s not our reward

Who are mad with the moon.

Wherever passionate love is leading

We’ll be discovering alone,

So little hope it can endure,

So wild, so deep, so dark the needing

That even fastened bone to bone,

We’ll not have lasting peace, that’s sure,

Nor any haven from despair

Who love by light of moon.

So come, though we shall never rest

In any house to call our own,

By any hearth we light and tend,

Lie here upon the cold earth’s breast

And lean your length hard on the stone:

Hearts break and they may also mend

But here until the certain end,

Wed me by light of moon.

Now the great open sky is ours

And the long light across the loam,

And we, gigantic hearts of dust,

Lie open like night-blooming flowers.

The homeless moon is our bright home,

And we shine too because we must,

Oh magic that we cannot trust,

The lovely changing moon!

Moving In
I moved into my house one day

In a downpour of leaves and rain,

“I took possession,” as they say,

With solitude for my domain.

At first it was an empty place

Where every room I came to meet

Watched me in silence like a face:

I heard the whisper of my feet.

So huge the absence walking there

Beside me on the yellow floor,

That one fly buzzing on the air

But made the stillness more and more.

What I possessed was all my own,

Yet not to be possessed at all,

And not a house or even hearthstone,

And never any sheltering wall.

There solitude became my task,

No shelter but a grave demand,

And I must answer, never ask,

Taking this bridegroom by the hand.

I moved into my life one day

In a downpour of leaves in flood,

I took possession, as they say,

And knew I was alone for good.

Portrait by Holbein
For E. B.
In a moment exaggeration,
the brilliant image
exploding in the mind,
will fade like fireworks,
leaving it dark.
But for this moment
your face is there,
landscape by lightning:
Your face is drawn in pencil,
startling the sense
with its perfected shape,
the tension of the outline,
the curious created purity—
used as a painter would, yourself,
interpreted and mastered—
the comment of the mind.

Bent to her sewing, she looks drenched in calm.
Raw grief is disciplined to the fine thread.

These Pure Arches

A Painting by Chirico
“The Delights of the Poet”

Here space, time, peace are given a habitation,

Perspective of pillar and arch, shadow on light,

A luminous evening where it can never be night.

This is the pure splendor of imagination.

To hold eternally present and forever still

The always fugitive, to make the essence clear,

Compose time and the moment as shadow in a square,

As these pure arches have been composed by will.

As by a kind of absence, feat of supersession

We can evoke a face long lost, long lost in death,

Or those hidden now in the wilderness of oppression—

Know the immortal breath upon the mortal breath:

A leaping out of the body to think, the sense

Of absence that precedes the stern work of creation.

Now when the future depends on our imagination,

Remember these pure arches and their imminence.

To be still, to be silent, to stand by a window

Where time not motion changes light to shadow,

Is to be present at the birth of creation.

For her all love, all praise,
All honor, as for trees
In the hot summer days.

Love

This cup holds grief and balm in equal measure,

The hearts of lovers as they walk, how pure;

How cool the wind upon the open palm

As they move on toward harvest, and so sure

Even this ripening has a marvelous calm

And a still center.