by Edgar Bowers¹

    Before he wrote a poem， he learned the measure

    That living in the future gives a farm——

    Propinquity of mules² and cows， the charmed

    Insouciance³ of hens， the fellowship，

    At dawn， of seed-time and of harvest-time.

    But when high noon gave way to evening， and

    The fences lay， bent⁴ shadows， on the crops

    And pastures to the yellowing trees， he felt

    The presences he felt when， over rocks，

    Through pools and where it wears the bank， the stream

    Ran bright and dark at once， itself its shadow；

    And suffered， in all he knew， the antagonists⁵

    Related in the Bible， in himself

    And every new condition from the beginning，

    As in the autumn leaf and summer prime.

    Therefore he chose to live the only game

    Worthy⁶ of repetition， in the likeness⁷

    Of someone like himself， a race of which

    He was the changing distances and ground，

    The runners， and the goal that runs away

    Forever into time； or like two players

    At odds⁸ in white and black， their dignities

    Triumphs refused or losses unredeemed.

    For the one， that it be ever of the pure

    Intention that he witnessed in the high

    Stained windows of King's Chapel——ancestral stories，

    The old above the new， like pages shining

    From an essential book——he taught his mind

    To imitate the meditation⁹， sovereign

    In verse and prose， of those who shared with him

    Intelligence of beauty， good， and truth

    As one， unchanging and unchangeable，

    Disinterested¹⁰ excitement through a sentence

    Their joy and passion. For the other， as

    A venturer asleep， he went among

    The voiceless and unvisionary many——

    Like one who offers blood to know his fate

    Or hold his twin again——deep in the midnight

    Baths of New Orleans， on its plural¹¹ beds

    And on the secret banks beside its river，

    The many who， anonymous¹² as he was，

    Uncannily resembled him， appearing

    Immortal¹³ in a finitude of mirrors.

    But when the sudden force of the disease

    Tossed him， in a new garment， on the bed

    Where he had wakened， mornings， as a child——

    Despised by all the neighbors， helpless， blind

    And vulnerable to every life， he listened

    Intensely to the roosters， mules and cows

    As well as to the voices of the desk，

    The chair， the books and pictures， pastures and fields，

    The tree of every season， the age of seas

    And， on its surge， the age of galaxies¹⁴，

    The bells within the spires¹⁵ of Cambridge， bodies

    And faces revealed or hidden in the flow，

    All that we knew or could imagine joined

    Together in the sound the stream flows through

    As witness of itself in every change，

    Each trusting in its continuities，

    All turning in a final radiant shell.

    Then， on his darkened eye， he saw himself

    A compact disk awhirl， played by the light

    He came from and was ready to reenter，

    But not before he chose the way to go.

    And so it was， before his death， he spoke¹⁶

    The poem that is his best， the final letter

    To take to that old country as a passport.

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