Winter 1957 • Vol. XIX No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1957 |


Death is a compromise the mind makes between an end it can never reach And all those ends in which it finds existence previous to living: The mind's journeys are journeys begun but never finished, As when, in understanding, we lift our eyes from a page of poetry. We travel on the journey our love makes as a discovered stowaway—One held in bondage for the payment of his passage; in death, the cost Is a bankruptcy where even the proceedings have been paid for. Each voyage, each journey, must be set out on at least to some extent In terms of the weather: the weather is the condition the body imposes on the mind. Often it makes little difference whether it is mist or rain, The starting is nowhere. On a sunny day, traveling through the country, The landscape seems to stand out in such strong relief That each moment is as if waking from a sleep: we are uncomprehending. Roofs sit too squarely on walls and the trees already have a life of their own;— It is. only what traveling contains

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