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Mornings, the body’s old winter monochrome gives its image of extraordinary cold to a million hives— I could imagine a lanthorn as it swallows its strange light and gleams from within as if reborn when the bees come.

1 “must represent the governess for, of course, the creature itself could not inspire such terror.” staring at me fixedly, no trace of recognition. “when the window opened of its own accord. In the big walnut tree were six or seven wolves ... strained attention. They were white.” (The fear of cloudy skies.) like strangers! After five years Misgiving. Misdoubt. 2 (The fear that one is dreaming.) The moon was shining, suddenly everything around me appeared (The fear of) unfamiliar. Wild vista inside or near the home. (Dread of bearing a monster.) If I failed to overlook the torn cushions, three teapots side by side, strewn towels, socks, papers— both foreign and stale. 3 when I saw the frame was rotten, crumbling away from the glass, in spots, in other places still attached with huge globs of putty. The doctor forced me to repeat the word. Chimera. Cold feet. scared and unreal looking at buildings. The thin Victorians with scaly paint, their flimsy backporches linked by skeletal stairways. 4 After five years (The fear that you are not at home.) I was sitting in the alcove where I never sit when I noticed a single eye, crudely drawn in pencil, in a corner near the floor. The paint was blistering— beneath it I saw white. 5 Sparrows settle on the sagging wires. (Fear of sights not turned to words.) Horrific. Grisly. “Rumplestiltskin!” Not my expression. Not my net of veins beneath thin skin. (A morbid dread of throbbing.) Of its own accord

Some have learnt many Tricks of sly Evasion, Instead of Truth they use Equivocation, And eke it out with mental Reservation, Which to good Men is an Abomination. Our Smith of late most wonderfully swore, That whilst he breathed he would drink no more; But since, I know his Meaning, for I think He meant he would not breath whilst he did drink.

China is made of earth, of sun-dried mud. In this part of China everything is made from the earth: the houses, the walls around cities, and villages, the tombs scattered over the countryside. Even the people. There are hills below that appear to be piles of mud set out to dry in the sun, naked, without a single tree or bush. They crowd around the landscape like the coils of bulging intestines tossed on the ground outside butchers' shops, slowly unraveling. Sometimes we fly so low that we almost touch them. And then I notice that the wind has brushed some kind of pattern into the earth: a mysterious alphabet written in the mud, struggling to communicate something precise. But there is not a single animal or human being in the yellow desert below. Not a single village. Suddenly we are landing: Xian, the geographic center of China, where Chinese civilization was born, in the cradle of the Yellow River. In front of the terminal, three children are playing with a lump of earth: they are bundled up in jackets and brightly printed cotton trousers. I join them in their game until a young woman comes out of the terminal to call me in for dinner. One of the children grabs me by my overcoat, to keep me from leaving. So do the other two, clinging to me, asking me not to go. The young woman comes out again, and yells at them to stop. They let go, disappointed. One of them calls to me as I turn away: Come back soon! We eat quickly and then prepare to take off for Lanchow. My three new friends wave goodbye to me. The littlest one gives me a present: a pebble, a precious gift. In this part of China there are no stones. You have to go to Karelia to find stone, very far north; or to the Caucasus; or to southern Siberia, along the slopes of the Pamir, slanting toward the steppes of Central Asia. I put the pebble in my pocket, to take back home, to show what a precious gift I was given by a little Chinese girl: a pebble from the cradle of Chinese civilization. A civilization made of earth, a civilization without bones, without a skeleton for support. A civilization of assembled customs, which suddenly unravel, dissolving into thousands of separate gestures, thousands of calligraphic icons, thousands of smells, colors, flavors, thousands of different shades. And then just as suddenly they solidify again into tradition, memory, habit. It is this absence of stone, of solid, durable material, which makes China such an exquisite thing. Everything is reflected: an unimaginable number of movements, of patterns, thoughts, images, of which we see the copies in immense numbers, but never the originals. The originals were destroyed long ago. Here are the four elements out of which China is made: Earth, Wood, Porcelain, Silk. The most durable of these is Silk. I should add a fifth element: Poetry, which is the most durable of all.

Man’s rich with little, were his Judgment true, Nature is frugal, and her Wants are few; Those few Wants answer’d, bring sincere Delights, But Fools create themselves new Appetites. Fancy and Pride seek Things at vast Expence, Which relish not to Reason nor to Sense Like Cats in Airpumps, to subsist we strive On Joys too thin to keep the Soul alive.

Where do you want ghosts to reside? In our wakeful hours there are flowers which produce nightmares We burned continents of silence   the future of nations the breathing of the fighters got thicker   became like oxen’s there is in that breath sparkles of scorched flesh and the fainting of stars we crucify Gilgamesh on a TANK Viking II reaches Mars Imam Ali dances over a nuclear blast cursed are the clouds which repel water cursed are the Arabs who fell tall and haggard eucalyptus trees

He sits at the table, cloudlight of March One tone with his hair, gray-silver on silver. Midday fare in Vermont is basic enough. In West Newbury, eggs and toast will do— Though our doctor’s had his sips of wine as well. “Just don’t be fooled. They’re not as nice as you Think they are. Live here a few more winters, You’ll get to know them clearer, and vice-versa.” Three years now, and we’re still finding our way; Newcomers need a guide to show them the ropes, And he has been explaining township and county Almost from the sunstruck day we met him That very first July in this old house. “I’ll cite an instance of community Spirit at work, North Country justice— A case I just happened to be involved in. No, please—all right, if you are having one.” He holds his glass aloft and then lets fall A silence that has grown familiar to us From other stories told on other days, The will to recount building its head of steam. “Well, now, you have to know about the victim. His name was Charlie Deudon, no doubt Canuck Stock some generations back, but he Nor no one else could tell you—if they cared. Deudons had been dirt farmers here as long As anybody knew. They never starved But never had a dime to spare, either. Charlie resolved to change the Deudon luck. And that’s just what he did. Or almost did. . . . He’d graduated two classes ahead of mine; We knew each other, naturally, but not On terms of friendship. Fact is, he had no friends, And only one girlfriend, whom he married Day after Commencement, June of ‘32. And then he set to work and never stopped Again, until they made him stop for good.” A wisp of a smile, half irony, half Bereavement plays about his guileless face— Red cheeks, blue eyes, a beardless Santa Claus; Whose bag contains (apart from instruments Of healing) stories, parables and proverbs, Painkillers, too, for when all else fails. “What kind of work had all that hard work been?” “Oh, farming, like his elders, only better. All the modern improvements, fancy feed And fertilizers, plus machinery— He was the first in these parts to milk His herd in any way but as ‘twas done Since Adam’s boys first broke ground with a plow. And anything machines couldn’t handle, Charlie did himself, from dawn to midnight. He never wasted a word or spilled a drop Of milk or drank a drop of beer or liquor. He was unnatural. And he made that farm Into a showplace, a kind of 4-H model. He made good money, yes, but not a dollar Would he spend unnecessarily. Do you get the picture? They hated him, The boys that hung around the package store. The most they ever got from tightfist Charlie Deudon was a nod out from under his cap. (His trademark—a baseball cap striped white and red.) They envied him for getting his hay in first; And there was more. A boy that he had hired, By the name of Carroll Giddens, was their buddy. Likeable fellow, regulation issue, The sort that knocks back a pint or a fifth In half a shake and tells off-color stories Till he’s got them choked to death with laughing. ‘Course the wisecracks they loved best were those About poor Charlie and his gold-plated farm. . . . Just one more case of what’s been often said By commentators on democracy— How it helps everyone keep modest.” Teasing mischief has crept into his voice. A self-taught anthropologist as well As teller of tales, he has other frames Of reference to place around events Local or international. He knows That things can stand for more than what they are; Indeed, says standing for things is why we’re here, And quotes chapter and verse to prove his point. “Think of the worldwide scapegoat ritual. In halfway civilized societies An animal’s the one relieved from life Duty, am I right? A fellow tribesman Will do in a pinch, if animals are lacking, Or if communal fears get screwed too tight. . . . Anyhow, it was clear that something more Than common envy stirred up the lynch law. Their own failure’s what they wanted dead.” Seconds pass in silence as he stares At something—perhaps a knothole in the pine Floorboard. He looks up, eyebrows raised, And twirls the glass stem between stubby fingers. A coil of rope hung on the wall, we see, Has made him pause and heave experienced sighs. “Here. Have another. So: was Charlie punished?” “I’m going to tell you—better me than others. You see, I was involved—no, no, no, Not in the deed, Lord, no, just as a witness. It happened this way—hope you’re not squeamish. Charlie had this boy to help with chores, The one named Carroll. Married, two kids, I think. Not too reliable. But so few are; Nor could you call his wages generous. His buddies must have stood him drinks, is all I can say. He’d a skinful half the time— Was certainly drunk that Christmas Eve morning. No reason to doubt what Charlie told his wife. Charlie’d been up to help at six with the milking, And Carroll, drunk as a fiddler’s bitch, was there Loading a pair of milk cans into the barrow. He took a slip and the whole business spilled. Wooden handle clipped him in the side, And he fell, too, right in the puddle of milk. And started laughing . Charlie, you can guess, Didn’t join in; he told him to get on home. ‘What about the milk?’ ‘Go home,’ he said, ‘You’re drunk.’ ‘But what about the milk?’ asks Carroll. ‘Comes out of next week’s paycheck,’ Charlie says. And then the trouble starts, with Carroll swearing And yelping, till Charlie gives him a little tap And goes indoors. By then Carroll could tell The barrow handle had cracked a rib or two. He drove into town to see his doctor—that Wasn’t me—and word went out that Charlie Had roughed up his innocent assistant. That’s all they needed, Carroll’s friends. About Time that stuck-up bastard got his due, He’s gone too far this time, but we’ll show him,

The ancient songs Pass deathward mournfully. Cold lips that sing no more, and withered wreaths, Regretful eyes, and drooping breasts and wings— Symbols of ancient songs Mournfully passing Down to the great white surges, Watched of none         - - Save the frail sea-birds And the lithe pale girls, Daughters of Okeanos. And the songs pass From the green land Which lies upon the waves as a leaf On the flowers of hyacinth; And they pass from the waters, The manifold winds and the dim moon, And they come, Silently winging through soft Kimmerian dusk, To the quiet level lands That she keeps for us all, That she wrought for us all for sleep In the silver days of the earth's dawning— Proserpine, daughter of Zeus. And we turn from the Kuprian's breasts, And we turn from thee, Phoibos Apollon, And we turn from the music of old And the hills that we loved and the meads, And we turn from the fiery day, And the lips that were over-sweet; For silently Brushing the fields with red-shod feet, With purple robe Searing the flowers as with a sudden flame, Death, Thou hast come upon us. And of all the ancient songs Passing to the swallow-blue halls By the dark streams of Persephone, This only remains: That in the end we turn to thee, Death, That we turn to thee, singing One last song. O Death, Thou art an healing wind That blowest over white flowers A-tremble with dew; Thou art a wind flowing Over long leagues of lonely sea; Thou art the dusk and the fragrance; Thou art the lips of love mournfully smiling; Thou art the pale peace of one Satiate with old desires; Thou art the silence of beauty, And we look no more for the morning; We yearn no more for the sun, Since with thy white hands, Death, Thou crownest us with the pallid chaplets, The slim colorless poppies Which in thy garden alone Softly thou gatherest. And silently; And with slow feet approaching; And with bowed head and unlit eyes, We kneel before thee: And thou, leaning towards us, Caressingly layest upon us Flowers from thy thin cold hands, And, smiling as a chaste woman Knowing love in her heart, Thou sealest our eyes And the illimitable quietude Comes gently upon us.

Βροδοπαχεες αγναι Χαριτες, δεντε Λιος κοραι Ye rosy-armed, pure Graces, come, Daughters of Zeus, be near! Oh, wherefore have my lips been dumb So long in silence drear? And why have I so cheerless been, So sorrowful and wild? It was because ye were not seen, Because ye had not smiled. Although his prayer the Muses bless, The poet doth require That ye, in frolic gentleness, Should stand beside his lyre. Ne’er will he mortal ear delight, Nor care-vex’d spirit ease; Except he sing with ye in sight, Rose-flushed among the trees.

When the living rot on the bodies of the dead When the combatants’ teeth become knives When words lose their meaning and become arsenic When the aggressors’ nails become claws When old friends hurry to join the carnage When the victors’ eyes become live shells When clergymen pick up the hammer and crucify When officials open the door to the enemy When the mountain peoples’ feet weigh like elephants When roses grow only in cemeteries When they eat the Palestinian’s liver before he’s even dead When the sun itself has no other purpose than being a shroud the human tide moves on . . .