LES YEUX DE LA TETE
As
exercises in a foreign measure
To the ear or on the page may seem the same
(And does it matter, so the sound give pleasure?)
I haunt the district under another name,
A tourist returned, sadly misdirected
By memory to the historic spot where
Once nothing happened: dark glasses reflecting
The pedestrian sun's indifferent glare.
I wear for my variety of reasons
The uniform disguise of a time and place
As
much mine as anyone's. In all seasons
Lenses of necessity disgrace my face.
I grope for affection, glaucopic lover,
In bed or thinking I want to go to bed,
Blind when best to be seen. Night shades cover
Beauties that cost, they say, the eyes of the head.
Why not? The eye is first of all a mirror,
Though not of the soul. On its bright surface swim
Whole argosies of joys. Least speaking feature,
Its objects see in
it
what it sees in them:
A tiny palace and a formal garden
In miniature, lawns, flowers, jewelled trees
By Faberge, and in the midst a fountain
Whose precious lights like tear drops fill the eyes.
Daryl
Hine
