One looks from the
Almost as one looked as a child.
In the
What I see still seems to me plain,
I am safe; but at
As the lands darken, a
Precariousness comes over everything.
Once after a day of rainI lay longing to be cold; after a whileI was cold again, and hunched
Under the quilt's many colors,
With the dull ending of the winter day,
Outside me there were a few
Of chairs and tables, things from a primer;
Outside the
There were the chairs and tables of the world…I saw that the
That had seemed to me the
Gray mask of all that was
Behind it — of all that was — was all.
But it is beyond belief.
One thinks, "Behind
An unforced joy, an
Sadness (a willing sadness, a forced joy)Moves changelessly"; one looks from the
And there is something, the same
Behind everything: all these little villages,
A passing woman, a field of grain,
The man who says good-bye to his wife —A path through a wood all full of lives, and the
Passing, after all
And not now ever to stop, like a heart —It is like any other work of art,
It is and never can be changed.
Behind everything there is
The unknown unwanted life.
