YVES BONNEFOYThe Book, for Growing Old
Transhumant stars; and the shepherd bending
Over earthly happiness; and peace
Such as this insect’s intermittent cry,
Shaped by a humble god. Silence
Has climbed from your book towards your heart.
A noiseless wind stirs in the world’s noise.
Time smiles in the distance, ceasing to be.
Simple is the ripe fruit in the orchard.
You will grow old
And, fading amid the color of the trees,
Casting a slower shadow on the wall,
Being at last, in your soul, the threatened earth,
You will take the book up where you had left it,
You will say, These were the last obscure words.
—richard pevear
A Voice
We were growing old. He was the leaves, I was the flowing spring.
He was a sliver of sun, I was the depth underneath.
He was death, and I was the wisdom to live.
Time showed his face in the shadows, the face of a faun;
His laughter did not mock us, and I accepted time.
I loved how the wind rose, shouldering the dark,
Loved how even dying in the deep black spring
Would barely stir the pool where the ivy drank.
I loved: I stood submerged in the endless dream.
—hoyt rogers
To the Voice of Kathleen Ferrier
All sweetness all irony gathered
For a farewell of crystal and of mist,
The deep iron blows yielded almost silence,
The light of the blade was veiled.
I sing the voice mixed with grey
Lingering far from the song now lost