You, Archibald MacLeish by Bob MacKenzie The Scribe across the bowl of night Has drawn a most imperfect light Which drawn must fade, and faded pass And leave behind our quaking mass Of self. We lay and read and she And I face up and hope to see A newer, brighter shining Sun Beyond, above oblivion And promising some shining crown: And if, some day, we must face down, And sure, we must, and sure, we will, Then why, if some day, now lay still? Oh, she's not coy; the hurry's hers As well as mine. But she concurs, As well she might, that laying here Should be an act of love, not fear, Of wine, of bread, of flying birds, Of Omar and The Potter's words Among the Guests Starscattered here, And rarely seeing, slinking near, The Dusk. Ask: rides the Sun across, Beyond, our lives? If so, what loss? The Shadows skulk across the sea And little care of her or me, Nor we of them; and so we feast On pheasant, stars and wine. At least The Epicure has come at last, The meal is served, the wine is passed: And Hedon fears no creeping blight, No secret shadow of the night. As drinking wine by candleglow We Phantom Figures come and go And in the garden talk a while Of you and me and her, and smile A while, I drink the wine you pour And faded cities fading more In dusk seem less important now That we, like day, prepare to bow. Had we but world enough, and time, Face down we might, then watch him climb - But no! There is no zenith more! The shadows soon will reach this shore And when they do is time enough To take the guise of sleep and slough The clay. Shall these shades so appall The Sun across the Garden wall? |