Fall 1947 • Vol. IX No. 4 Poetry |

Wind of Spain

Down from the hills the wind came striding and striding, And it was cool as the dark coral hermitage of fish Where it rinsed the boughs of the olive trees with its motion And girdled the bending waist of a tall girl at its wish. The earth was dry. The wind went on to Cadiz To instruct the gargoyles of their remarkable past, And kiss the round, full wounds of Saint Cecilia's Agony, stilled in stone, and colorfully glassed; To chant in the alleys of golden filaments And the blood-plunged sapphires in the crown of Spain Uttering always to the sleeper and the twisted beggar, "There can be no beauty where there has not been pain." Whispering sweetly to the preserved lemon flesh Of the bishop's corpse, of the saint's embalmed right hand, This wisdom, blistered by luminous faggots and stones Upon the tight-fitting faces of the land. And there came to this country a stranger, riding before the wind On a small burro, seeking a past which was forgot, And the wind spun wildly in

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Anthony Hecht (1923- 2004) followed the G.I. bill to study with John Crowe Ransom at Kenyon. He wrote eight books of poetry and two works of nonfiction, winning the Pulitzer Prize for his poetry collection The Hard Hours in 1967. In his lifetime he also received the Bollingen Prize, the Ruth Lilly Prize, the Loines Award, the Librex-Guggenheim Eugenio Montale Award, and the Harriet Monroe Poetry Award, as well as fellowships from the Academy of American Poets, the American Academy in Rome, the Ford Foundation, the Guggenheim Foundation, and the Rockefeller Foundation. He was a Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets and lived in Washington, D.C.

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The Deodand

By Anthony Hecht

Down from the hills the wind came striding and striding, And it was cool as the dark coral hermitage of fish Where it rinsed the boughs of the olive trees […]

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