Chester Kallman
STORM AT CASTELFRANCO
THE MAN:
The sower is deed, do not harass him, he
For answering holds but litde
Grace: indeed no singer of
his
theme, no prophet
By intention, a lover less,
He is for all time over us, all Love,
And awkwardly though we sing it
Our song is
his,
our song is questioning. Here
Abundant lies about me
His planted rage, a country peace unending–
What though he build? this hush
May freely dip to a purl or clamber to a roar;
Those arches he has scattered
From
his
hand center no city, magnify
No spoil, but heighten well
His errant love's horizons. 0 nubile green,
Featureless as a vow
That is past crumpled faces and unhinged limbs,
Allow my worried touch
A moment here that I may be for him
A bristling ambassador
And absolute. His dawn is strangely everywhere;
Then why, white and rose,
Spurts to my eyes a light well known by which
Darkness may show her hand?
I am and I believe and with nativity am strong,
And yet to find it as to find
The rumor in a sea shell a veracious wave, is not
The same. Nothing is the same
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