This grief that is proud, this unrest
so settled, no shape they will take,
no act they will do, will do.
The cracks in the wall,
day's shell-pale moon by, mistake
for a world? The tablecloth, checked
like an Aztec, is Alpine enough
to fix me plenty.
Leaves the wall scribbles,
paper clambering roses held in lame air,
these propose terror timidity dares.
Grief has its eclogues,
flutes chalk and chagrin, a green
J
gadding sward not the world can gainsay,
while the vermin go humming
in these cracks their adequate lives.
I sit in the room, late noon
and long in my winter, keeping
the fatted flocks, with the roses,
glittering in the ice, shaken by root's
far-away itch.
Only day can play
drab, play shadow to this.
But you, going out, coming in,
constant as tides, silent by my side
like a growing,
you bring back
from your sleep confidings
of that openness grief in its arrogance
has never touched, nor the .person
of my pride.
T. Weiss
