POETRY
So one is grateful, yes, to the ancient .Greeks
For the invention of time, the lustration of penitents
Not so much for what they were
But for where we lie under the windless planes.
BLIND HOMER
A winter night again, and the moon
Loosely inks in the marbles and retires.
The six pines whistle and stretch, and there
Eastward the loaded brush of morning pauses
Where the few Grecian stars sink and revive
Each night in glittering baths of sound.
Now to the winter each has given up
Deciduous stuff, the snakeskin and the antler,
Cast skin of poetry and the grape.
Blind Homer the lizards still sup the heat
From the rocks, and still the spring,
Noiseless as coins on hair repeats
Her diphthong after diphthong endlessly,
Exchange a glance with one whose art
Conspires with introspection against loneliness
This February 1946, pulse normal, nerves at rest:
Heir to a like disorder, only lately grown
Much more uncertain of his gift with words,
By this plate of olives, this dry inkwell.
563
LAWRENCE D uRRELL
