356
PARTISAN REVIEW
A levelled world waiting to be made new
Old hives were honeyless, bee-lines led nowhere,
Roads still ran, but only to link ruins,
No mat or footmark, glass or gaze,-eagles
Had picked the eyes and meaning out of maps.
Some, homesick for the fixed features, argued
That we would never find a way, would move
And wander on through featureless land
Looking for aims, as on some Arctic waste
The lost explorer moves, moored to sameness
Of snow, impossible to memorise,
No hook for eye, no hug for heart, no route
For foot, no return, no base. So they said.
But we took bearings with our high hope's help,
Struck stakes out of our strict resolves, drove roads,
Found knowledge hidden in our needs,
Plotted new maps out of our own exploits,
Our thirsts sank wells, turned water into wine,
Our appetities caught food on the wing, we,
Not counting any wound we .gave or got,
Ran past warnings, threw bridges over seas,
Or, impatient, walked on the water. Death
Timed us. Our wills bounded lightly across
The single and yielding ledge of the moment,
We heard it failing behind us, but we
Looked not back. On that narrow road we strode
Straight forward to desire, stripped, not stopping
Or side-stepping into explanation.
No blow could dent us, or kiss relax us,
Or risk excuse us from our conclusion.
We shook off the detaining hands of friends,
Refused ease. Some said we were insensitive,
But no! At the heart's heat our putty thoughts
Had hardened into stubborn purposes,
And our hopes, so often lightly relaxed,
No longer now snapped back to apathy
But stayed stretched out to sticking point, intent
On attainment. Until in every place,
Camp, court, clearing, meeting-ground, where once stood
