Now winter downs the dying of the year,
And night is all a settlement of snow;
From the soft street the rooms of houses show
A gathered light, a shapen atmosphere,
Like frozen-over lakes whose ice is thin
And still allows some stirring down within.
Step off assuredly into the blank of your own mind. Something will come to you. Although at first You nod through nothing like a fogbound prow, Gravel will breed in the margins of your gaze
Richard WilburWhat is the opposite of two?
A lonely me, a lonely you.
Odd that a thing is most itself when likened
Richard WilburTeach me, like you, to drink creation whole/ And casting out myself, become a soul.
Richard WilburA thrush, because I'd been wrong,
Burst rightly into song
In a world not vague,
not lonely,
Not governed by me only.
Writing poetry is talking to oneself; yet it is a mode of talking to oneself in which the self disappears; and the product's something that, though it may not be for everybody, is about everybody.
Richard WilburStichwörter: poetry
Outside the open window
The morning air is all awash with angels.
Stichwörter: morning
All that we do is touched with ocean, and yet we remain on the shore of what we know
Richard WilburIt is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.
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