186
SONG
PARTISAN REVIEW
Such is season's grave enigma said:
0 sad, sad, my poor king who's dead
And handwriting that still exists like
him
And words he left that tread
his
mighty tread.
The boulevard of trees his face curtained
And girdle of oak leaves about
his
head
Guard his pale loins that cover nothing now.
0 hang his face on the autumnal bough.
But what of ice in rivers broken?
That musical speech of gorges against stones?
This was the ice that broke upon
his
look
0 regent of the day he left.
My poor dead king against the avenues!
What lucid snow now sleeps upon
his
breast!
As
once, in other snows respecting none
He was the snow that falls now onto me.
JEAN GARRIGUE
FAR FROM LANCASTER
Past facades bland as a well-dressed
corpse, the traveler goes. His
childhood grew fabulous among
these houses that once were homes
Before he understood his hate for acrid
box in gardens dank with violets.
Along the leafy street, the Georgian
myth bequeaths its elegance to
Decorators' and morticians' flats; and
the twin asperity of steeples,-
like old women among men-whitewashed
and trim, declare the primacy
