THE RECLUSE
I
My life is bountiful, although I dwell
Absurdly in it. I am a bird disgracing
This most lovely tree by my poor plumage,
Half grown and badly worn as if unowned.
About me grow such gorgeous blossoms
I have long since called them eyes of God.
On this white tree amid blue flowers of air
I am the only thing improbable.
To my own senses I am all unreal.
This bright world lacing and unlacing
Cannot create me in another sense
But stares out of its luminous blue eyes
Unwondering at my wind-eaten wings.
II
I live beside a stream that does not flow,
And I have grown as still as my profound
And household river. I am as cold as ice
And do not know how light inhabits me
Making my heart a crystal cave, untenanted
By anything but glory. I do well know
That, underneath, the sea searches the stream
And claims it, beyond all power to contain
Its meanings, or withold its tearless well
From ocean's fields, resalted by the rock
The name of which is always Niobe.
And by this sign I know that I shall love
Again, and thereby grow both swift and dark.
III
My house is older than my life and therefore
A continual instruction. Through
it
Pours the song of birds as if it were
Not there. I read in Ovid at my table
