This was its promise, held to faithfully:
The early morning sun came in this
Until the angle of its saffron
Between the curtains and the sofa lay,
And with its ochre heat it spread
The village houses, and the nearby wood,
Upon my bed and on my dampened
And to the corner where the bookcase stood.
Then I recalled the reason why my
Had been so dampened by those tears that fell-I'd dreamt I saw you coming one by
Across the wood to wish me your farewell.
You came in ones and twos, a straggling crowd;
Then suddenly someone mentioned a word:
It was the sixth of August, by Old Style,
And the Transfiguration of Our Lord.
For from Mount Tabor usually this
There comes a light without a flame to shine,
And autumn draws all eyes upon
As clear and unmistaken as a sign.
But you came forward through the tiny, stripped,
The pauperly and trembling alder grove,
Into the graveyard's coppice, russet-red,
Which, like stamped gingerbread, lay there and glowed.
And with the silence of those high
Was neighbour only the imposing
And in the echoed crowing of the
The distances and distances rang by:
There in the churchyard underneath the trees,
Like some surveyor from the
Death gazed on my pale face to
How large a grave would suit my measurement.
All those who stood there could distinctly hearA quiet voice emerge from where I lay:
The voice was mine, my past; prophetic
That sounded now, unsullied by decay:'Farewell, wonder of azure and of
Surrounding the Transfiguration's power:
Assuage now with a woman's last
The bitterness of my predestined hour!'Farewell timeless expanse of passing years!
Farewell, woman who flung your challenge
Against the abyss of humiliations:
For it is I who am your battlefield!'Farewell, you span of open wings outspread,
The voluntary obstinacy of flight,
O figure of the world revealed in speech,
Creative genius, wonder-working might!'
