In here, caught by the storm. How the rain beats on the metal roof! And the hens peck at my feet, these my ladies, their mournful pessimism, ayie, ayie, ayo, and my boy whom I have loved -- how shall I say it or sing it? -- more than myself, more than my poems (that are myself), more than the world (that is my poems), ladies, these thirteen years, and now he is turning, turning away. I know we are "carried about the sun," about and about, this conglomeration, a higgledy-piggledy planet, incomprehensible, I could not be part of it. And I am. Carried. Desire long ago beaten out, so that I wanted small things only, a song, a boy. No, it will not cohere, this "world"; relentless the years and it will not. Mind cannot make it. Ladies, do you know ever what it means to be carried? Woe, ladies, the boy is turning. A current runs on the grass. And the dark falls early. Come now, up to your roost and let the evening dance begin, the slow sarabande -- aft by fore, or aft by aft, which shall it be? -- turning, turning in the cadence of your song. Ayie, ayie, ayo. Slower and slower. Good night, ladies, in your hurtling house. The time of the mouse has come, the rain strums on your roof. Keep close and keep warm. Bless me if you are able, commend me to the storm. Good night, good night. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BE STRONG by MALTBIE DAVENPORT BABCOCK THE PRISONER (A FRAGMENT) by EMILY JANE BRONTE GOLD-OF-OPHIR ROSES by GRACE ATHERTON DENNEN EVENING (1) by EMILY DICKINSON THE SONG OF A HEATHEN by RICHARD WATSON GILDER EILEEN AROON by GERALD JOSEPH GRIFFIN EPITAPHS OF THE WAR, 1914-18: 'EQUALITY OF SACRIFICE' by RUDYARD KIPLING TO MR. THOMAS SOUTHERNE, ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 1742 by ALEXANDER POPE |