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If one saves a butterfly, has one saved the world? Rabbi says: If one saves one butterfly, even with long wings, one butterfly that has fallen into water, it may be said: “He has saved the whole world.” If one saves a motley moth, is it the same? Rabbi: It is valid. If one saves a dirty monkey from a flame, for example, it is as the saying is: He or she has saved the whole world. It is valid for all creatures, and not more so for the creatures who know how to recite the blessings. It is always valid, even on the Sabbath. It is said: The creatures of the sky are owned by no one, like the land. If one saves the Book from being destroyed, is it also saving a world? Rabbi: God forbid, yes, saving the book from the fire, saving the book or books from the fire, is known to be comparable. He who saves a book and he who writes a holy book, it should be said: They have saved the whole world like a book. If one saves a rose, one rose, from the garden of your dead Teacher, is it still appropriate to think: She has saved the world. The Rabbi was silent and seemed troubled. He replied: If the house of the great teacher is in ruins, and the garden is a scandal, and one saves one rose from his garden it is said even of one rose: It is like saving the world. It is also said the rose will grow as large as the world.

The sun met the moon at the corner noon in thin air Commotion you later choose to notice Love shapes the heart that once was pieces You take in hand the heart in mind Your fate’s consistent alongside mine Unless a mess your best guess That is right, thanks, the intimate fact that you elect it At corners, dressed or naked, with lips taste full body, time thick or thin, fixated Love, take heart as heart takes shape And recognition ceases to be obscure One line down the center another flying outward enters

We set great wreaths of brightness on the graves of the passionate who required tribute of hot July flowers— for you, O brittle-hearted, we bring offering remembering how your wrists were thin and your delicate bones not yet braced for conquering. The sharp cries of ghost-boys are keen above the meadows, and little girls continue graceful and wondering. Flickering evening on the lakes recalls those young heirs whose developing years have sunk to earth, their strength not tested, their praise unsung. Weave grasses for their childhood—who will never see love or disaster or take sides against decay balancing the choices of maturity. Silent and coffined in silence while we pass loud in defiance of death, the helpless lie. October 1935

I judge My soul Eagle Nor mole: A man Is what He saves From rot. The corn Will fat A hog Or rat: Are these Dry bones A hut’s Or throne’s? Who filled The moat ’Twixt sheep And goat? Let Death, The twin of Life, Slip in? Prophets Arise, Mask-hid, Unwise, Divide The earth By class and birth. Caesars Without, The People Shall rout; Caesars Within, Crush flat As tin. Who makes A noose Envies The goose. Who digs A pit Dices For it. Shall tears Be shed For those Whose bread Is thieved Headlong? Tears right No wrong. Prophets Shall teach The meek To reach. Leave not To God The boot And rod. The straight Lines curve? Failure Of nerve? Blind-spots Assail? Times have Their Braille. If hue Of skin Trademark A sin, Blame not The make For God's Mistake. Since flesh And bone Turn dust And stone, With life So brief, Why add To grief? I sift The chaff From wheat and laugh. No curse Can stop The tick Of clock. Those who Wall in Themselves And grin Commit Incest And spawn A pest. What’s writ In vice Is writ In ice. The truth Is not Of fruits That rot. A sponge, The mind Soaks in The kind Of stuff That fate’s Milieu Dictates. Jesus, Mozart, Shakespeare, Descartes, Lenin, Chladni, Have lodged With me. I snatch From hooks The meat Of books. I seek Frontiers, Not worlds On biers. The snake Entoils The pig With coils. The pig’s Skewed wail Does not Prevail. Old men Grow worse With prayer Or curse: Their staffs Thwack youth Starved thin For truth. Today The Few Yield poets Their due; Tomorrow The Mass Judgment Shall pass. I harbor One fear If death Crouch near: Does my Creed span The Gulf Of Man? And when I go In calm Or blow From mice And men, Selah! What . . . then?

White coat and purple coat a sleeve from both he sews. That white is always stained with blood, that purple by the rose. And phantom rose and blood most real compose a hybrid style; white coat and purple coat few men can reconcile. White coat and purple coat can each be worn in turn but in the white a man will freeze and in the purple burn.

At the throat of Soweto a devil language falls slashing claw syllables to shred and leave raw the tongue of the young girl learning to sing her own name Where she would say water They would teach her to cry blood Where she would save grass They would teach her to crave crawling into the grave

Stanza 1 From harmony, from Heav'nly harmony This universal frame began. When Nature underneath a heap Of jarring atoms lay, And could not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high, Arise ye more than dead. Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, In order to their stations leap, And music's pow'r obey. From harmony, from Heav'nly harmony This universal frame began: From harmony to harmony Through all the compass of the notes it ran, The diapason closing full in man. Stanza 2 What passion cannot music raise and quell! When Jubal struck the corded shell, His list'ning brethren stood around And wond'ring, on their faces fell To worship that celestial sound: Less than a god they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell That spoke so sweetly and so well. What passion cannot music raise and quell! Stanza 3 The trumpet's loud clangor Excites us to arms With shrill notes of anger And mortal alarms. The double double double beat Of the thund'ring drum Cries, hark the foes come; Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat. Stanza 4 The soft complaining flute In dying notes discovers The woes of hopeless lovers, Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute. Stanza 5 Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs, and desperation, Fury, frantic indignation, Depth of pains and height of passion, For the fair, disdainful dame. Stanza 6 But oh! what art can teach What human voice can reach The sacred organ's praise? Notes inspiring holy love, Notes that wing their Heav'nly ways To mend the choirs above. Stanza 7 Orpheus could lead the savage race; And trees unrooted left their place; Sequacious of the lyre: But bright Cecilia rais'd the wonder high'r; When to her organ, vocal breath was giv'n, An angel heard, and straight appear'd Mistaking earth for Heav'n. GRAND CHORUS As from the pow'r of sacred lays The spheres began to move, And sung the great Creator's praise To all the bless'd above; So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And music shall untune the sky.

When tunes jigged nimbler than the blood And quick and high the bows would prance And every fiddle string would burst To catch what’s lost beyond the string, While half afraid their children stood, I saw the old come out to dance. The heart is not so light at first, But heavy like a bough in spring.

You are beadwork woven by a broken Indian woman That I mend with cautious, needle-pricked fingers. You are raw sweetness of burning chaga Scraping my lungs and startling tears. You are the bear claw necklace No longer caressing The space between my breasts. You are cigarettes That I quit years ago, But sometimes smoke anyways. You are maple syrup on snow Melting on my tongue Until I ache from the cold. You are the cedar tree Sheltering my childhood From unwanted caresses. You are the star blanket Sliding off the bed on autumnal nights. You are a stubborn braid of wiingashk That must be relit with a dozen matches Before it releases thin streamers of sweetness. You are the love song Played on a reedless flute That only spirits hear.

My true-love hath my heart and I have his, By just exchange one for the other given: I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss; There never was a bargain better driven. His heart in me keeps me and him in one; My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: He loves my heart, for once it was his own; I cherish his because in me it bides. His heart his wound received from my sight; My heart was wounded with his wounded heart; For as from me on him his hurt did light, So still, methought, in me his hurt did smart: Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss, My true love hath my heart and I have his.