At the Grav·e of Henry James
W. H. Auden
The snow, less intransigent than their marble,
Has left the defence of whiteness to these tombs;
For all the pools at my feet
Accommodate blue now, and echo such clouds as occur
To the sky, and whatever bird or mourner the passing
Moment remarks they repeat.
While the rocks, named after singular spaces
Within which images wandered once that caused
All to tremble and offend,
Stand here in an innocent stillness, each marking the spot
Where one more series of errors lost its uniqueness,
And novelty came to an end.
To whose real advantage were such transactions,
When worIds of reflection were exchanged for trees?
What living occasion can
Be just to the absent? 0 noon but reflects on itself,
And the small taciturn stone that is the only witness
To a great and talkative man,
Has no more judgment than my ignorant shadow
Of odious comparisons or distant clocks
Which challenge and interfere
With the heart's instantaneous reading of time, time that is
A warm enigma no longer in you for whom I
Surrender my private cheer.
Startling the awkward footsteps of my apprenhension,
The flushed assault of your recognition is
The
donnee
of this doubtful hour:
0 stern proconsul of intractable provinces,
0 poet of the difficult, dear addicted artist,
Assent to my soil and flower.
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