Poetry is at least an elegance and at most a revelation.Robert Fitzgerald
by Robert Fitzgerald (1910 – 1985)
His logic unperturbed, exacting new
Tribute in turbulence, a tithe of motion:
Runners by whose feet daylight is shaken,
Moths, mantles wind-wrought, releases sharply
Against throned columns, shafts closing in air –
Attend. Time’s clear device in each man’s eye
Makes shadows what he sees, and streets shadows
Wherein we move, impelled or quieted.
We have been out to see the latest signs
Unbent from heaven, and these who staring walk
Beside us are not blind, and all who see
Through this low draft of shade will be undone.
Thus to lie one night with his back broken
And dream at dawn the idol in the stone.