Once in his life a man ought to concentrate his mind upon
the remembered earth, I believe. He ought to give himself up
to a particular landscape in his experience, to look at it from
as many angles as he can, to wonder about it, to dwell upon
I am a feather on the bright sky
I am the blue horse that runs in the plain
I am the fish that rolls, shining, in the water
I am the shadow that follows a child
The eagle is my power,
And my fan is an eagle.
It is strong and beautiful
In my hand. And it is real.
I ponder how He died, despairing once.
I've heard the cry subside in vacant skies,
In clearings where no other was. Despair,
Which, in the vibrant wake of utterance,
How shall we adorn
Recognition with our speech?—
Now the dead firstborn
Will lag in the wake of words.
What did we say to each other
that now we are as the deer
who walk in single file
with heads high