for he was a knower of horses, and these were fine.

He leaned on a cane and dragged his feet

along the ground in hurried little steps

so that I called to him to take care, take care,

as the horses stamped and frolicked around him.

But while I warned, he seized the mane

of the nearest one. ‘It’ll be all right,’

he said, and then from his broken stance

he leapt astride, and sat lithe and straight

and strong in the sun’s unshadowed excellence.

GIVEN

In Memory: Ross Field

In a Country Once Forested

The young woodland remembers

the old, a dreamer dreaming

of an old holy book,

an old set of instructions,

and the soil under the grass

is dreaming of a young forest,

and under the pavement the soil

is dreaming of grass.

They

I see you down there, white-haired

among the green leaves,

picking the ripe raspberries,

and I think, ‘Forty-two years!’

We are the you and I who were

they whom we remember.

Why

Why all the embarrassment

about being happy?

Sometimes I’m as happy

as a sleeping dog,

and for the same reasons,

and for others.

Listen!

How fine to have a radio

and beautiful music playing

while I sit at rest in the evening.

How fine to hear through the music

the cries of wild geese on the river.

How to be a Poet

(to remind myself)

Make a place to sit down.

Sit down. Be quiet.

You must depend upon

affection, reading, knowledge,

skill – more of each

than you have – inspiration,

work, growing older, patience,

for patience joins time

to eternity. Any readers

who like your work,

doubt their judgment.

Breathe with unconditional breath

the unconditioned air.

Shun electric wire.

Communicate slowly. Live

a three-dimensioned life;

stay away from screens.

Stay away from anything

that obscures the place it is in.

There are no unsacred places;

there are only sacred places

and desecrated places.

Accept what comes from silence.

Make the best you can of it.

Of the little words that come

out of the silence, like prayers

prayed back to the one who prays,

make a poem that does not disturb

the silence from which it came.

SABBATH POEMS

I.

I go among trees and sit still.

All my stirring becomes quiet

around me like circles on water.

My tasks lie in their places

where I left them, asleep like cattle.

Then what is afraid of me comes

and lives a while in my sight.

What it fears in me leaves me,

and the fear of me leaves it.

It sings, and I hear its song.

Then what I am afraid of comes.

I live for a while in its sight.

What I fear in it leaves it,

and the fear of it leaves me.

It sings, and I hear its song.

After days of labor,

mute in my consternations,

I hear my song at last,

and I sing it. As we sing,