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But that which most I wonder at, which most I did esteem my bliss, which most I boast, And ever shall enjoy, is that within I felt no stain, nor spot of sin. No darkness then did overshade, But all within was pure and bright, No guilt did crush, nor fear invade But all my soul was full of light. A joyful sense and purity Is all I can remember; The very night to me was bright, ’Twas summer in December. A serious meditation did employ My soul within, which taken up with joy Did seem no outward thing to note, but fly All objects that do feed the eye. While it those very objects did Admire, and prize, and praise, and love, Which in their glory most are hid, Which presence only doth remove. Their constant daily presence I Rejoicing at, did see; And that which takes them from the eye Of others, offer’d them to me. No inward inclination did I feel To avarice or pride: my soul did kneel In admiration all the day. No lust, nor strife, Polluted then my infant life. No fraud nor anger in me mov’d, No malice, jealousy, or spite; All that I saw I truly lov’d. Contentment only and delight Were in my soul. O Heav’n! what bliss Did I enjoy and feel! What powerful delight did this Inspire! for this I daily kneel. Whether it be that nature is so pure, And custom only vicious; or that sure God did by miracle the guilt remove, And make my soul to feel his love So early: or that ’twas one day, Wherein this happiness I found; Whose strength and brightness so do ray, That still it seems me to surround; What ere it is, it is a light So endless unto me That I a world of true delight Did then and to this day do see. That prospect was the gate of Heav’n, that day The ancient light of Eden did convey Into my soul: I was an Adam there A little Adam in a sphere Of joys! O there my ravish’d sense Was entertain’d in Paradise, And had a sight of innocence Which was beyond all bound and price. An antepast of Heaven sure! I on the earth did reign; Within, without me, all was pure; I must become a child again.

I laid myself down as a woman And woke as a child. Sleep buried me up to my chin, But my brain cut wild. Sudden summer lay sticky as tar Under bare white feet. Stale, soot-spotted heapings of winter Shrank in the street. Black headlines, infolded like napkins, Crashed like grenades As war beat its way porch by porch Up New Haven's façades. Europe: a brown hive of noises, Hitler inside. On the sunny shelf by the stairs My tadpoles died. Big boys had already decided Who'd lose and who'd score, Singing one potato, two potato, Three potato, four. Singing sticks and stones May break my bones (but names hurt more). Singing step on a crack Break your mother's back (her platinum-ringed finger). Singing who got up your mother When your daddy wasn't there? Singing allee allee in free! You're Dead, you're dead, wherever you are!

Nothing can reach you now, not lead or steel, or what life itself eventually reveals. No more studies of kindness or courtesy, nor grace or charity, all is needless now. All is needless now, sky, world, family grieving for their bundles of purity, now beyond disgrace, failure, winter streets, or whatever attacks, and then retreats. Classrooms emptied of children’s things, paper and paste, and love’s imaginings, bundles of peace, Christmas-blessed with the unborn and the dead at rest, nothing can reach you now, not lead or steel or what life itself eventually reveals.

Their long skirts and high heels battled away: Depending on the ground’s and breezes’ whim, At times some stocking shone, low on the limb— Too soon concealed!—tickling our naïveté. At times, as well, an envious bug would bite Our lovelies’ necks beneath the boughs, and we Would glimpse a flash—white flash, ah! ecstasy!— And glut our mad young eyes on sheer delight. Evening would fall, the autumn day would draw To its uncertain close: our belles would cling Dreamingly to us, cooing, whispering Lies that still set our souls trembling with awe.

' I believe it would go ill with many of us, if we were faced with a strong temptation, and I suspect that with many of us it does go ill.' —Ivy Compton Burnett He set out on the innocent exodus. He went at Easter In a lengthening dawn, and he did not count the days. He was young. With the wooden comb his mother made him He parted his hair in the middle (his beard was slow). He was fair still, he glowed like a source of light. There were so many priests about, there was too much singing; He did not like God the Father who came from Rome With his tattered son and the incomprehensible bird. Easter for him was other kinds of rebirth, But from the trees and streams, the uplands and valleys He knew the native spirits dislodged, crowding the shore To cross over like no longer immortal souls, lined up Awaiting the ferry and the disgruntled boatman. They did not intend to fade out to the sound of bells and choiring; They would find a new woodland or water for haunt, untroubled By candles and books and the tedious, meaningless Latin. Without farewell before daybreak he left home. He pushed past the visible almost crowd on the shore, Divine shapes, scents, their sorrowful voices and silences. He murmured out of respect and they let him pass through. Goodbye he declared to them and to his country. First he crossed the small sea in a leather coracle Pointing the blunt prow at what looked like mainland. The sea was glassy, he paddled with his palms, at landfall Made fire and warmed them, conjuring spirits of a new place. They gathered around to gaze at his lovely body. He abandoned his boat and clambered up the rocks. He climbed a hill, a ridge, and then a mountain. It was a protracted joy, that crossing away From the small sea. Looking back, Ireland got littler. Then it and the smooth water were lost to view And never again did he see what had been home, Hear its lilt, or receive news of his many brothers Who bred, and banked their fields, who fished and hunted, And made a tribe, a village and a nation. The uplands were lush and full of fauna, the grass Deep, humming, and everywhere were gods, Their tears, their wounds and resurrections. Spring Smattered the glades, flecked and mottled with blossom, The wheeling birds shouted their emphatic prayer; And deer: that enormous stag with a broken antler; Wolves and wild cats, too, a bear he saw, red pheasants, And rooting through an oak wood, a tusky boar... He walked in amazement (he did not count the days) Reading the symbols, and cheerful local gods Skipped and tumbled before him, showing the way Across the very backbone of that mainland. It was not England yet. It was wilderness. He wrapped his feet in grass and leaves, in strips of leather; He wore a leathern kilt and a stiff hide waistcoat Fragrant with wear and weather. As he went along He runed, was merry, it was almost like rhyming. He climbed jet black mountains veined with silver falls, Washed face and hands in the frenzied spray of those tarns, Made the noises of a man free now of Christendom, In the uncharted, unmarred wilderness, his sweet voice Gracing the ears of insects, beasts and wild fowl And the ears of the local spirits, Orpheus, Or as Adam's must have done when he told the animals Who they were in the first sunrise of the world, Before Eve had been carved out of his rejoicing To correct and contradict him, and the tall fruit tree Stood safe in his obedience, when at evening God himself, not his bloodied Son, walked out in starlight And kissed his creature, and lay with him in the dark. It was not, he began to know, an innocent exodus. It was the long route to exile, the way that hermits Took to white martyrdom, alone with their God for ever. He was not like them: wild-hearted spirits of place Coaxed his credulous footsteps past the equinox. On the eastern shore of what was becoming England He saw far off kernels of cities, squat towers, spires; Rough roads north and south, wagons groaning with stone, And into meagre harbours boats and barges Hugging the coast bore produce in and away. That world was not for him, with its crosses and crossroads. He saw steep islands dark in a bigger sea, No man mark on them, no smoke, no stone quarry, No furrows or shepherds, in their thin woods no traps. It was summer now (he did not count the days), He sat on the summit of the last hill and looked east Wondering where on that island he would build His round stone dwelling and give his mortal days To local grace, the gods of leaf and stone, With his soul configured to love, like a hearth, his heart On fire but unconsumed because such promiscuous heat Amazes and makes not cinders but rapture and language. His dwelling would be a beacon, a land-star radiant To a lowering ocean unbroken beyond the islands As far as the eye. Shading his eyes, he went on his way. He crossed the bad sands not knowing they were bad Between two tides, two islands, walking ankle deep, knee, Then up to the waist, the paps, until only his upturned face Floated on the water, the mouth crying out joyful spells, Eyes fixed on the sun, the flaxen hair fanned out Like rays of a lesser sphere. He could not swim But there was no need, a sea god hovered ahead, Sandals firm on the wave. Emerging step by step He was new, it was autumn, his homelessness This island, these tilting rocks. He chose for his dwelling A high place with a view of nothing but east, The rows of waves impatient to crash on the boulders, Where the storms might climb and burst over his reflections, And the fowls of the air become familiars. He set to work carting stones, gods gathered nearby Harkening, making crowns of nettle, spears of bone, A cup from a gourd, and a dish. Each day his dwelling Grew higher, like a hive for bees, a dome, a cranium. One day, it was the solstice, a final stone Closed the fontanel. The votary moved in. He gathered the crowns and spears, the cup and dish And laid out the new table for his guests. Would the gods sit down beside at his first supper? He looked for them, he called out praising their names. They had all gone off somewhere. There was nowhere to go! The tide was full and even the deep route hither Had gone under waves, the mainland had vanished in fog. He sat alone at his table. He sat alone. The gods who had brought him were gone. He started counting Day one was the day when things began to go. He watched his shadow every morning, lengthening Over the water, over the sand and stones, And being washed and parched like a piece of laundry Until it was white as a nightshirt spread to dry On a gorse bush, fluttering a little, an empty sleeve, Saying go on, go back, go on, go back The way waves do, the way the tides do, also, Or simply wind blows and the tide says nothing at all. How clean the stones and the sand, the breaking waves, How clean the moonlight, the sunlight, and his lovely throat Young and in love—is it still young and in love?— With the spirits, his voice pure as a bird's, but he's counting, The days are shortening, his voice is growing darker. Surely they listen out and watch their votary There on the verge of the cliff in his careful dance Like a gull whose wings are reliance, like a guillemot. So he chanted, he praised and danced, and it was the end Of autumn. For the first time cold, he telt the bones in his flesh. Above him, north, with terror he saw the Lights And it was a human shadow that towered in them, A man on a cross, a man with a cross inside him Instead of a skeleton; the cross was still and shimmered As if it held its breath so as to observe him. He was trembling, he saw the ghostly limbs Behind the bright-dim curtain, those long wired veins Through which pulse flickered and the wine flowed, The chest breathed with almost no sound at all. This figure had nothing to do with the gods who brought him, Tugged at his heart, took their leave when most he needed. This looked like the son of the god he had sought to elude, Now a giant surveying a world and a singular man Abandoned by everything he'd served, but nonetheless Dancing and shivering above the scrum of waves. Cities had grown on the mainland meanwhile, monks and priors, Grew fat; there were nuns and teachers, the farmsteads prospered. The places he'd passed through had roads now, stone towers and walls, Where he'd chanted to wilderness out of a pagan heart. To the east there is nothing.The sleet blows in. It is so cold now, winter hardening. The days are counted and are counting down. After laud and joy, the radiance fading, Winter is here, and bidding becomes of the body, The rings of light, of fire, the rings of starlight. The votary tries his tongue to find what he means. He tries to speak with what has been refined. He has no words at all. The feet that led, the hands That rested on his head, arrested him, are nowhere. He was grown old and unremarkable, and now He knows desire. He knows desire as he has never Known any passion in his person before, he desires A voice, a touch. From his precipice soon Like a gannet he's to dive, or like a stone. Winter has come indeed, and the stars, he's wasted, wasted. No devil arrives to offer long life and kingdoms, To touch his brow, to kiss him on the lips. No gods return with prayer mats and chains of flowers, With brands and blankets, with warm thick drinks, with lamplight, With meat or fruit, with a breathing loaf or a lamb. (In the coldest night someone does cover him And when he wakes he finds A fire alive in the hearth, his table laid With biscuit, and in the gourd a mouthful of pure water.) He is old, his matted beard dark, filthy. He has Praised presence and absence and set his glow Fading on the island's seaward face. When he starts dying, That night, in the flickering of his chamber, The Vikings steer five ships packed with warriors Around the end of his island, using his glimmer As lighthouse and marker, reaching their intended haven. Had he survived that night, even afar he'd have felt The heat of the conflagration, smelled apocalypse As the pagans returned and the little gods came with them, Clapping their hands and rejoicing, and rushed to the woods To be with their trees and streams and hills and valleys As the church spires collapsed, the monks and priors and priests Fuel for bonfires, and until the Vikings withdrew They were safe, divine again, though the shuddering Lights Disclosed the tall cross and the watcher, smoke in his heart. The island's dark, the darker now for his dying, Unmarked and unremarked. But someone covers his face, Is winding in coarse scented cloth the extinguished body, Having tidied the wild hair, parted it in the centre, And washed at last the limbs that longed to be touched. Someone rolls them to the cliff edge, lets them go east.

Compiling this landmark anthology of poetry in English about dogs and musical instruments is like swimming through bricks. To date, I have only, “On the Death of Mrs. McTuesday’s Pug, Killed by a Falling Piano,” a somewhat obvious choice. True, an Aeolian harp whispers alluringly in the background of the anonymous sonnet, “The Huntsman’s Hound,” but beyond that — silence. I should resist this degrading donkey-work in favor of my own writing, wherein contentment surely lies. But A. Smith stares smugly from the reverse of the twenty pound note, and when my bank manager guffaws, small particles of saliva stream like a meteor shower through the infinity of dark space between his world and mine.

The quick-sliding cape of mind Drags wrinkled on a dusty floor, A party dress, Sagging from those shoulders of a smile that stalks through crooked time followed by a goat nipping the petticoat. Scape-goat, grin out loud. Make the cloak a shroud. He whinnys through the nose, paws the trailing hem and strikes a fawning pose. Tight-clamped, the clasp of tin Tears cloth it won’t undo. Before the gown slips down. A rent . . . which lets the darkness through.

For a Statue of Napoleon A conqueror as provident as brave, He robbed the cradle to supply the grave. His reign laid quantities of human dust: He fell upon the just and the unjust.

This Sycamore, oft musical with bees,— Such tents the Patriarchs loved! O long unharmed May all its agèd boughs o'er-canopy The small round basin, which this jutting stone Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may the Spring, Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath, Send up cold waters to the traveller With soft and even pulse! Nor ever cease Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance, Which at the bottom, like a Fairy's Page, As merry and no taller, dances still, Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount. Here Twilight is and Coolness: here is moss, A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade. Thou may'st toil far and find no second tree. Drink, Pilgrim, here; Here rest! and if thy heart Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound, Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees!

The twist of the stream was inscrutable. It was a seemingly run-of-the-mill stream that flowed for several miles by the side of Route 302 in northern Vermont— and presumably does still—but I’ve not been back there for what seems like a long time. I have it in my mind’s eye, the way one crested a rise and rounded a corner on the narrow blacktop, going west, and saw off to the left in the flat green meadow the stream turning briefly back on itself to form a perfect loop—a useless light-filled water noose or fragment of moon’s cursive, a sign or message of some kind—but left behind.