For such shades of vocation I could give over
The otium of the oatstraw filled with breath,
The evening whistling in the Dixie of
Solitude; I would study those solaces
As if deaf, becoming a philosopher
In my fifth and fiftieth year, a stopped pipe
That knows its own wind, an unheeding reed
Plucked from its place beside the mirroring pond
Unruffled, blown by gusts of mind that give
All but touch to surface. I would hang
The heart of music on the willing limb
Of this or that undreaming tree that stands
Beside the water without having that matter,
Without need of more than the peace of its own place.
Derek Walcott
TO NORLINE
This beach will soon be empty
for several salt-fresh dawns
of these marks the surf gently
erases with its sponge,
then someone else will come
from the still-sleeping house,
a coffee-mug warm in his palm
as my body once cupped yours,
