by Allen Tate

    Row after row with strict impunity¹

    The headstones yield their names to the element，

    The wind whirrs without recollection；

    In the riven troughs the splayed leaves

    Pile up， of nature the casual sacrament

    To the seasonal² eternity³ of death；

    Then driven by the fierce scrutiny⁴

    Of heaven to their election in the vast breath，

    They sough the rumour⁵ of mortality.

    Autumn is desolation in the plot

    Of a thousand acres where these memories grow

    From the inexhaustible bodies that are not

    Dead， but feed the grass row after rich row.

    Think of the autumns that have come and gone！

    Ambitious November with the humors of the year，

    With a particular zeal⁶ for every slab⁷，

    Staining the uncomfortable angels that rot

    On the slabs⁸， a wing chipped here， an arm there：

    The brute⁹ curiosity of an angel's stare

    Turns you， like them， to stone，

    Transforms the heaving air

    Till plunged¹¹ to a heavier world below

    You shift your sea-space blindly

    Heaving， turning like the blind crab¹².

    Dazed by the wind， only the wind

    The leaves flying， plunge¹⁰

    You know who have waited by the wall

    The twilight¹³ certainty of an animal，

    Those midnight restitutions of the blood

    You know the immitigable pines， the smoky frieze¹⁴

    Of the sky， the sudden call： you know the rage，

    The cold pool left by the mounting flood，

    Of muted Zeno and Parmenides.

    You who have waited for the angry resolution

    Of those desires that should be yours tomorrow，

    You know the unimportant shrift of death

    And praise the vision

    And praise the arrogant¹⁵ circumstance

    Of those who fall

    Rank upon rank， hurried beyond decision

    Here by the sagging¹⁶ gate， stopped by the wall.

    Seeing， seeing only the leaves

    Flying， plunge and expire

    Turn your eyes to the immoderate past，

    Turn to the inscrutable infantry¹⁷ rising

    Demons¹⁸ out of the earth they will not last.

    Stonewall， Stonewall， and the sunken fields of hemp¹⁹，

    Shiloh， Antietam， Malvern Hill， Bull Run.

    Lost in that orient of the thick and fast

    You will curse the setting sun.

    Cursing only the leaves crying

    Like an old man in a storm

    You hear the shout， the crazy hemlocks²⁰ point

    With troubled fingers to the silence which

    Smothers²¹ you， a mummy， in time.

    The hound bitch

    Toothless and dying， in a musty cellar

    Hears the wind only.

    Now that the salt of their blood

    Stiffens²² the saltier oblivion of the sea，

    Seals the malignant²³ purity of the flood，

    What shall we who count our days and bow

    Our heads with a commemorial woe²⁴

    In the ribboned coats of grim felicity，

    What shall we say of the bones， unclean，

    Whose verdurous anonymity²⁵ will grow？

    The ragged²⁶ arms， the ragged heads and eyes

    Lost in these acres of the insane green？

    The gray lean spiders come， they come and go；

    In a tangle²⁷ of willows²⁸ without light

    The singular screech-owl's tight

    Invisible lyric²⁹ seeds the mind

    With the furious murmur³⁰ of their chivalry³¹.

    We shall say only the leaves

    Flying， plunge and expire

    We shall say only the leaves whispering

    In the improbable mist of nightfall

    That flies on multiple wing：

    Night is the beginning and the end

    And in between the ends of distraction³²

    Waits mute speculation³³， the patient curse

    That stones the eyes， or like the jaguar³⁴ leaps

    For his own image in a jungle pool， his victim.

    What shall we say who have knowledge

    Carried to the heart？  Shall we take the act

    To the grave？  Shall we， more hopeful， set up the grave

    In the house？  The ravenous³⁵ grave？

    Leave now

    The shut gate and the decomposing³⁶ wall：

    The gentle serpent， green in the mulberry bush，

    Riots with his tongue through the hush³⁷

    Sentinel of the grave who counts us all！

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