Thursday 9 October 2014

The Thursday Poem

Potted Flowers with Books IV
Eric Barjot


What are Years?

What is our innocence,
what is our guilt?  All are
naked, none is safe.  And whence
is courage: the unanswered question,
the resolute doubt, -
dumply calling, deafly listening - that
in misfortunate, even death,
encourages others
and in its defeat, stirs

the soul to be strong?  He
sees deep and is glad, who
accedes to mortality
and in his imprisonment rises
upon himself as
the sea in a chasm, struggling to be
free and unable to be,
in its surrendering
finds its continuing.

So he who strongly feels,
behaves.  The very bird,
grown taller as he sings, steels
his form straight up.  Though he is captive,
his mighty singing
says, satisfaction is a lowly
thing, how pure a thing is joy.
This is mortality,
this is eternity.

Marianne Moore
(15th November 1887 - 5th February 1972)

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