David Ben-Merre

A Cento


The diagram still sketched on the wind...
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind
Hacia las islas tuyas que me aguardan.
Such as God knows, with freer air,
a color: Orange. I write a line.
I have come after them and made repair,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time.
(It will be late to counsel then or pray.)
In Now's black waters burn the stars of then—
The grass our fathers cut away
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
And to opene it to hem and hevene blisse shewe.
The shadows have their seasons, too.