For Caroline

    Christ has been done to death

    in the cold reaches of northern Europe

    a thousand thousand times.

    Suddenly bread

    and cheese appear on a plate

    beside a gleaming pewter beaker of beer.

    Now tell me that the Holy Ghost

    does not reside in the play of light

    on cutlery！

    A Woman makes lace，

    with a moist-eyed spaniel lying

    at her small shapely feet.

    Even the maid with the chamber¹ pot

    is here； the naughty， red-cheeked girl. . . .

    And the merchant's wife， still

    in her yellow dressing² gown

    at noon， dips her quill³ into India ink

    with an air of cautious pleasure.