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is my season of defeat. Though all is green and death is done, I feel alone. As if the stone rolled off from the head of the tomb is lodged in the doorframe of my room, and everyone I’ve ever loved lives happily just past my able reach. And each time Jesus rises I’m reminded of this marble fact: they are not coming back.

I have met them at close of day Coming with vivid faces From counter or desk among grey Eighteenth-century houses. I have passed with a nod of the head Or polite meaningless words, Or have lingered awhile and said Polite meaningless words, And thought before I had done Of a mocking tale or a gibe To please a companion Around the fire at the club, Being certain that they and I But lived where motley is worn: All changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born. That woman's days were spent In ignorant good-will, Her nights in argument Until her voice grew shrill. What voice more sweet than hers When, young and beautiful, She rode to harriers? This man had kept a school And rode our wingèd horse; This other his helper and friend Was coming into his force; He might have won fame in the end, So sensitive his nature seemed, So daring and sweet his thought. This other man I had dreamed A drunken, vainglorious lout. He had done most bitter wrong To some who are near my heart, Yet I number him in the song; He, too, has resigned his part In the casual comedy; He, too, has been changed in his turn, Transformed utterly: A terrible beauty is born. Hearts with one purpose alone Through summer and winter seem Enchanted to a stone To trouble the living stream. The horse that comes from the road, The rider, the birds that range From cloud to tumbling cloud, Minute by minute they change; A shadow of cloud on the stream Changes minute by minute; A horse-hoof slides on the brim, And a horse plashes within it; The long-legged moor-hens dive, And hens to moor-cocks call; Minute by minute they live: The stone's in the midst of all. Too long a sacrifice Can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice? That is Heaven's part, our part To murmur name upon name, As a mother names her child When sleep at last has come On limbs that had run wild. What is it but nightfall? No, no, not night but death; Was it needless death after all? For England may keep faith For all that is done and said. We know their dream; enough To know they dreamed and are dead; And what if excess of love Bewildered them till they died? I write it out in a verse— MacDonagh and MacBride And Connolly and Pearse Now and in time to be, Wherever green is worn, Are changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born.

Even on Easter Sunday when the church was a jungle of lilies and ferns fat Uncle Paul who loved his liquor so would pound away with both fists on the stone pulpit shouting sin sin sin and the fiery fires of hell and I cried all after- noon the first time I heard what they did to Jesus it was something the children shouldn’t know about till they were older but the new maid told me and both of us cried a lot and so mother got another one right away & she sent away Miss Richardson who came all the way from England because she kept telling how her fiancé Mr. Bowles- Lyon died suddenly of a heart attack he just said one day at lunch I’m afraid I’m not well and the next thing they knew he was sliding un- der the table. Easter was nice the eggs were silly but the big lilies were wonderful & when Uncle Paul got so fat from drinking that he couldn’t squeeze into the pulpit anymore & had to preach from the floor there was an el- ders’ meeting and they said they would have the pulpit rebuilt but Uncle Paul said no it was the Lord’s manifest will and he would pass his remaining years in sacred studies I liked Thanksgiving better be- cause that was the day father took us down to the mills but Easter I liked next best and the rabbits died because we fed them beet tops and the lamb pulled up the grass by the roots and was sold to Mr. Page the butcher I asked Uncle Robert what were sacred studies he said he was not really sure but he guessed they came in a bottle and mother sent me away from the table when I wouldn’t eat my lamb chops that was ridiculous she said it wasn’t the lamb of God it was just Caesar An- dromache Nibbles but I couldn’t I just couldn’t & the year of the strike we didn’t go to Church at all on Easter because they said it wasn’t safe down town so instead we had prayers in the library and then right in the mid- dle the telephone rang it was Mr. Shupstead at the mill they had had to use tear gas father made a special prayer right a- way for God’s protection & mercy and then he sent us out to the farm with mother we stayed a week and missed school but it rained a lot and I broke the bathroom mirror and had to learn a long psalm.

(In memory of Joseph Mary Plunkett) ("Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave.")

Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store, Though foolishly he lost the same, Decaying more and more, Till he became Most poore: With thee O let me rise As larks, harmoniously, And sing this day thy victories: Then shall the fall further the flight in me. My tender age in sorrow did beginne And still with sicknesses and shame. Thou didst so punish sinne, That I became Most thinne. With thee Let me combine, And feel thy victorie: For, if I imp my wing on thine, Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

To always be in motion there is no choice even for the mountain and its frigid cousins floating on the oceans that even sluggish seethe and moan and laugh out loud at their own jokes. How "like the human heart" can be said of pert near everything, pint of fizz, punching bag because all moves: the mouse, the house, the pelt of moon corresponding to the seas (see above) (now get back here) of mood, sadness heaving kelp at the sunken city's face, gladness somersaulting from the eaves like a kid's drawing of a snowflake. No matter how stalled I seem, some crank in me tightens the whirly-spring each time I see your face so thank you for aiming it my way, all this flashing like polished brass, lightning, powder, step on the gas, whoosh we're halfway through our lives, fishmarkets flying by, Connecticut, glut then scarcity, hurried haircuts, smell of pencils sharpened, striving, falling short, surviving because we ducked or somehow got some shut-eye even though inside the hotel wall loud leaks. I love to watch the youthful flush drub your cheeks in your galloping dream. Maybe even death will be replenishment. Who knows? Who has the time, let's go, the unknown's display of emeralds closes in an hour, the fireworks' formula has changed, will we ever see that tangerine blue again, factory boarded up then turned into bowling lanes.

An eater, or swallowhole, is a reach of stream or a tidal area given to violent currents and waves that often upset and/or suck under boats and kayaks and the like as they are attempting passage. — William Kittredge The eater, my birthmother, was speaking: I can’t tell you his name.

1 FAT is the soul of this flesh. Eat with your hands, slow, you will understand breasts, why everyone adores them—Rubens’ great custard nudes—why we can’t help sleeping with pillows. The old woman in the park pointed, Is it yours? Her gold eye-teeth gleamed. I bend down, taste the fluted nipples, the elbows, the pads of the feet. Nibble earlobes, dip my tongue in the salt fold of shoulder and throat. Even now he is changing, as if I were licking him thin. 2 HE SQUEEZES his eyes tight to hide and blink! he’s still here. It’s always a surprise. Safety-fat, angel-fat, steal it in mouthfuls, store it away where you save the face that you touched for the last time over and over, your eyes closed so it wouldn’t go away. 3 WATCH HIM sleeping. Touch the pulse where the bones haven’t locked in his damp hair: the navel of dreams. His eyes open for a moment, underwater. His arms drift in the dark as your breath washes over him. Bite one cheek. Again. It’s your own life you lean over, greedy, going back for more.

1 fat is the soul of this flesh. Eat with your hands, slow, you will understand breasts, why everyone adores them—Rubens' great custard nudes—why we can't help sleeping with pillows. The old woman in the park pointed, Is it yours? Her gold eye-teeth gleamed. I bend down, taste the fluted nipples, the elbows, the pads of the feet. Nibble earlobes, dip my tongue in the salt fold of shoulder and throat. Even now he is changing, as if I were licking him thin. 2 he squeezes his eyes tight to hide and blink! he's still here. It's always a surprise. Safety-fat, angel-fat, steal it in mouthfuls, store it away where you save the face that you touched for the last time over and over, your eyes closed so it wouldn't go away. 3 watch him sleeping. Touch the pulse where the bones haven't locked in his damp hair: the navel of dreams. His eyes open for a moment, underwater. His arms drift in the dark as your breath washes over him. Bite one cheek. Again. It's your own life you lean over, greedy, going back for more.

Since I’ve decided to revolutionize my life since ” decided ” revolutionize ” life ” How early it is! It is eight o’clock in the morning. Well, the pigeons were up earlier Did you eat all your egg? Now we shall go for a long walk. Now? There is too much winter. I am going to admire the snow on your coat. Time for hot soup, already? You have worked for three solid hours. I have written forty-eight, no forty-nine, no fifty-one poems. How many states are there? I cannot remember what is uniting America. It is then time for your nap. What a lovely, pleasant dream I just had. But I like waking up better. I do admire reality like snow on my coat. Would you take cream or lemon in your tea? No sugar? And no cigarettes. Daytime is good, but evening is better. I do like our evening discussions. Yesterday we talked about Kant. Today let’s think about Hegel. In another week we shall have reached Marx. Goody. Life is a joy if one has industrious hands. Supper? Stew and well-cooked. Delicious. Well, perhaps just one more glass of milk. Nine o’clock! Bath time! Soap and a clean rough towel. Bedtime! The Red Army is marching tonight. They shall march through my dreams in their new shiny leather boots, their freshly laundered shirts. All those ugly stains of caviar and champagne and kisses have been rubbed away. They are going to the barracks. They are answering hundreds of pink and yellow and blue and white telephones. How happy and contented and well-fed they look lounging on their fur divans, chanting, “Russia how kind you are to us. How kind you are to everybody. We want to live forever.” Before I wake up they will throw away their pistols, and magically factories will spring up where once there was rifle fire, a roulette factory, where once a body fell from an open window. Hurry dear dream I am waiting for you under the eiderdown. And tomorrow will be more real, perhaps, than yesterday.