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Whom should I choose for my Judge? the earnest, impersonal reader, Who, in the work, forgets me and the world and himself! Ye who have eyes to detect, and Gall to Chastise the imperfect, Have you the heart, too, that loves, feels and rewards the Compleat? What is the meed of thy Song? 'Tis the ceaseless, the thousandfold Echo Which from the welcoming Hearts of the Pure repeats and prolongs it, Each with a different Tone, compleat or in musical fragments.

The Moon, how definite its orb! Yet gaze again, and with a steady gaze— 'Tis there indeed,—but where is it not?— It is suffused o'er all the sapphire Heaven, Trees, herbage, snake-like stream, unwrinkled Lake, Whose very murmur does of it partake And low and close the broad smooth mountain Is more a thing of Heaven than when Distinct by one dim shade and yet undivided from the universal cloud In which it towers, finite in height.

When Hope but made Tranquillity be felt— A Flight of Hopes for ever on the wing But made Tranquillity a conscious Thing— And wheeling round and round in sportive coil Fann'd the calm air upon the brow of Toil—

Water and windmills, greenness, Islets green;— Willows whose Trunks beside the shadows stood Of their own higher half, and willowy swamp:— Farmhouses that at anchor seem'd—in the inland sky The fog-transfixing Spires— Water, wide water, greenness and green banks, And water seen—

At first all you see are the folds of drapery, high grass close together, swaying beads you parted as a child, field behind the house, then river. Sky. You were told finches lived there, red- winged, tipsy, upside down their hold on the reeds, even so they sang, trilling over and over your outstretched hands song poured like seeds from a basket or from a bowl, water. There was a woman, young, beautiful—you used to hug her from behind, closing your hands over the cry of surprise she gave out like perfume. Now here she is, rising from the dead landscape of memory, just this fragment of her, still kneeling.

An old man with a new hat is running out of pride. I want to tell the truth but I don’t know how. The wind is our best pen and it blows poetry out of the water. I wait for days and weeks to enter a feeling that’s had years to leave. The ocean keeps throwing questions it has all the answers to. A candle lights a room and dims the stars. When all that consoled consoles no longer loneliness finds a room inside the one it knows. I am shrinking from the light and turning into space. An old man with a new hat wears his smile in the dark.

A day without tears is a rare occurrence culpable absent-mindedness practically an episode • when men still wore starched collars, and stuffed cotton wool between their toes hobbled about in pain, pedicure hadn’t been invented, but you would see faces that were worth a second look those were years when something whispered

Most of the things you made for me—blanket- chest, lapdesk, the armless rocker—I gave away to friends who could use them and not be reminded of the hours lost there, not having been witness to those designs, the tedious finishes. But I did keep the mirror, perhaps because like all mirrors, most of these years it has been invisible, part of the wall, or defined by reflection— safe—because reflection, after all, does change. I hung it here in the front, dark hallway of this house you will never see, so that it might magnify the meager light, become a lesser, backward window. No one pauses long before it. But this morning, as I put on my overcoat, then straightened my hair, I saw outside my face its frame you made for me, admiring for the first time the way the cherry you cut and planed yourself had darkened, just as you said it would.

for Jerry Estrin Snow covers The hills one by one Our neighborhood Characters become San Francisco 1874 Words later language A photograph At home when Light writes 1974 Or 1979 We move where The Lives of My Books Pages accumulate Not legible as themselves Historical time 1989 Startled leaves us Unafraid though Overgrown Died in 1993 Moved in 1994 In pink stone Earlier in "The Park" Wrote shells and cherubs The cathedral The fountain

I Ye Clouds! that far above me float and pause, Whose pathless march no mortal may control! Ye Ocean-Waves! that, wheresoe'er ye roll, Yield homage only to eternal laws! Ye Woods! that listen to the night-birds singing, Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined. Save when your own imperious branches swinging, Have made a solemn music of the wind! Where, like a man beloved of God, Through glooms, which never woodman trod, How oft, pursuing fancies holy, My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound, Inspired, beyond the guess of folly, By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound! O ye loud Waves! and O ye Forests high! And O ye Clouds that far above me soared! Thou rising Sun! thou blue rejoicing Sky! Yea, every thing that is and will be free! Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be, With what deep worship I have still adored The spirit of divinest Liberty. II When France in wrath her giant-limbs upreared, And with that oath, which smote air, earth, and sea, Stamped her strong foot and said she would be free, Bear witness for me, how I hoped and feared! With what a joy my lofty gratulation Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band: And when to whelm the disenchanted nation, Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand, The Monarchs marched in evil day, And Britain joined the dire array; Though dear her shores and circling ocean, Though many friendships, many youthful loves Had swoln the patriot emotion And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves; Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance, And shame too long delayed and vain retreat! For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aim I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame; But blessed the paeans of delivered France, And hung my head and wept at Britain's name. III "And what," I said, "though Blasphemy's loud scream With that sweet music of deliverance strove! Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream! Ye storms, that round the dawning East assembled, The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light!" And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled, The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm and bright; When France her front deep-scarr'd and gory Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory; When, insupportably advancing, Her arm made mockery of the warrior's ramp; While timid looks of fury glancing, Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp, Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore; Then I reproached my fears that would not flee; "And soon," I said, "shall Wisdom teach her lore In the low huts of them that toil and groan! And, conquering by her happiness alone, Shall France compel the nations to be free, Till Love and Joy look round, and call the Earth their own." IV Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those dreams! I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament, From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns sent— I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained streams! Heroes, that for your peaceful country perished, And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows With bleeding wounds; forgive me, that I cherished One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes! To scatter rage, and traitorous guilt, Where Peace her jealous home had built; A patriot-race to disinherit Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear; And with inexpiable spirit To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer— O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind, And patriot only in pernicious toils! Are these thy boasts, Champion of human kind? To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway, Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey; To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils From freemen torn; to tempt and to betray? V The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad game They burst their manacles and wear the name Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain! O Liberty! with profitless endeavour Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour; But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power. Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee, (Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee) Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions, And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves, Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions, The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves! And there I felt thee!—on that sea-cliff's verge, Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above, Had made one murmur with the distant surge! Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare, And shot my being through earth, sea, and air, Possessing all things with intensest love, O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there.