April is gone, Summer is a second season, The landscape is now; There is no reason For past or future thinking, The plow lies in the shed, And the land is dead To all motion save the slow Brilliant blossoming of summer.
Only later will the furrowed brow Perceive the seasons' separations And remember and understand Harsh imprint of spring.
Then a scarecrow will look down Longingly on creation And with snowfall, fall Beneath winter's covering.
This moth caught in the room tonight Squirmed up, sniper-style, between The rusty edges of the screen; Then, long as the room stayed light,
Lay here, content, in some cornerhole. Now that we've settled into bed Though, he can't sleep. Overhead, He throws himself at the blank wall.
Each night hordes of these flutterers haunt And climb my study windowpane; Fired by reflection, their insane Eyes gleam; they know what they want.
How do the petulant things survive? Out in the fields they have a place And proper work, furthering the race; Why this blind fanatical drive
Indoors? Why rush at every spark, Cigar, headlamp or railway warning To break off your wings and starve by morning? And what could a moth fear in the dark
Compared with what you meet inside? Still, he rams the fluorescent face Of the clock, thinks that's another place Of light and families, where he'll hide.
We ought to trap him in a jar, Or come like the white-coats with a net And turn him out toward living. Yet We don't; we take things as they are.
As they grew older, the land which had grown wheat washed down the hill, and the river carried the land into the sea.
The priest with the horned mask, who brought meat from the altar, turned into a bird and flew among the mountains.
The people of the markets who touched their heads to the ground, changed into clumps of weed among the gutters of the bare hill.
A galley which carried wine sank in the harbour, and a barge of hooks smoked and heaved to raise it from deep mud.
The King and Queen rule over the dark nation of thrones. As slowly as a river builds a delta, they have become still.
The musk-ox smells in his long head my boat coming. When I feel him there, intent, heavy, the oars make wings in the white night, and brave woods are close on either side where trees darken.
I rowed past towns in their black sleep to come here. I passed the northern grass and cold mountains.
The musk-ox moves when the boat stops, in hard thickets. Now the wood is dark with old pleasures.
Aprendizaje paso a paso, grabaciones de voz para compartir y recordatorios de repaso.
