This World

ppp The eyes open to a cry of pulleys,
And spirited from sleep, the astounded soul
Hangs for a moment bodiless and simple
As false dawn.

ppppppp Outside the open window
The morning air is all awash with angels.

ppp Some are in bed-sheets, some are in blouses,
Some are in smocks: but truly there they are.
Now they are rising together in calm swells
Of halcyon feeling, filling whatever they wear
With the deep joy of their impersonal breathing;

ppp Now they are flying in place, conveying
The
terrible speed of their omnipresence, moving
And staying like white water; and now of a sudden
They swoon down into so rapt a quiet
That nobody seems to be there.
ppppppppppppppppppppppp The soul shrinks

ppp From all that it is about to remember,
From the punctual rape of every blessed day,
And cries,
ppppp "Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry,
Nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam
And clear dances done in the sight of heaven."

ppp Yet, as the sun acknowledges
With a warm look the world's hunks and colors,
The soul descends once more in bitter love
To accept the waking body, saying now
In a changed voice as the man yawns and rises,

ppp "Bring them down from their ruddy gallows;
Let there be clean linen for the backs of thieves;
Let lovers go fresh and sweet to be undone,
And the heaviest nuns walk in a pure floating
Of dark habits,
pppppppppp keeping their difficult balance."


From NEW AND COLLECTED POEMS (Harcourt, 1988)

 

Poems by Richard Wilbur

The Writer

This World

For C.