Wednesday, October 24, 2007

A Chronic Condition


A Chronic Condition

by Richard Wilbur

Berkeley did not forsee such misty weather,
Nor centuries of light
Intend so dim a day. Swaddled together
In seperateness, the trees
Persist or not beyond the gray-white
Palings of the air. Gone
Are whatever wings bothered the lighted leaves
When leaves there were. Are all
The sparrows fallen? I can hardly hear
My memory of those bees
Which only lately mesmerized the lawn.
Now, something, blaze! A fear
Swaddles me now that Hylas' tree will fall
Where no eye lights and grieves,
Will fall to nothing and without a sound.

I sway and lean above the vanished ground.

from New and Collected Poems
Harcourt, 1989

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