Archibald MacLeish

A poem should be palpable and mute As a globed fruit, Dumb As old medallions to the thumb, Silent as the sleeve-worn stone Of casement ledges where the moss has grown— A poem should be wordless As the flight of birds. * A poem should be motionless in time As the moon climbs, Leaving, as the moon releases Twig by twig the night-entangled trees, Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves, Memory by memory the mind— A poem should be motionless in time As the moon climbs. * A poem should be equal to: Not true. For all the history of grief An empty doorway and a maple leaf. For love The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea— A poem should not mean But be.

The star dissolved in evening—the one star The silently and night O soon now, soon And still the light now and still now the large Relinquishing and through the pools of blue Still, still the swallows and a wind now and the tree Gathering darkness: I was small. I lay Beside my mother on the grass, and sleep Came— slow hooves and dripping with the dark The velvet muzzles, the white feet that move In a dream water and O soon now soon Sleep and the night. And I was not afraid. Her hand lay over mine. Her fingers knew Darkness,—and sleep—the silent lands, the far Far off of morning where I should awake.