In Memoriam:
Robert LowellI can make out the rigging of a schoonera mile off;
I can countthe new cones on the spruce.
It is so stillthe pale bay wears a milky skin; the skyno clouds except for one long, carded horse¹s tail.
The islands haven't shifted since last summer,even if I like to pretend they have—drifting, in a dreamy sort of way,a little north, a little south, or sidewise—and that they¹re free within the blue frontiers of bay.
This month our favorite one is full of flowers:buttercups, red clover, purple vetch,hackweed still burning, daisies pied, eyebright,the fragrant bedstraw's incandescent stars,and more, returned, to paint the meadows with delight.
The goldfinches are back, or others like them,and the white-throated sparrow's five-note song,pleading and pleading, brings tears to the eyes.
Nature repeats herself, or almost does:repeat, repeat, repeat; revise, revise, revise.
Years ago, you told me it was here(in 1932?) you first "discovered girls"and learned to sail, and learned to kiss.
You had "such fun," you said, that classic summer.("Fun"—it always seemed to leave you at a loss…)You left North Haven, anchored in its rock,afloat in mystic blue…And now—you've leftfor good.
You can't derange, or rearrange,your poems again. (But the sparrows can their song.)The words won't change again.
Sad friend, you cannot change.
