POEMS
RAINER MARIA RILKE
Pont du Carrousel
Just in the way, on the bridge, I saw the blind man stand,
Stone gray, stone still, and always the same,
Like a border-mark. But we have lost the name
Of the country he marks. He is that stubborn thing around
Which, as though he were the pole, the great
Sky-figures amble and swagger on their route.
He is the Good, which doesn't budge for the crowd
That shoves past him in the road.
He marks our passage to an underworld
To which we stroll or dance or else are hurled.
Translated from the German
by
Millicent Bell
C.
DALE YOUNG
The Architects of Time
had grown to love absence,
and so, the lot had to be vacant
except for the lone tree.
The first, on arrival, would
throw his hands up, reaffirm
that with a gesture he could
return the leaves to the branches.
Another, tired from the journey,
