The glamour of the end attic, the smell of old
Leather trunks—Perdita, where have you been
Hiding all these years? Somewhere or other a green
Flag is waving under an iron vault
And a brass bell is the herald of green country
And the wind is in the wires and the broom is gold.
Perdita, what became of all the things
We said that we should do? The cobwebs cover
The labels of Tyrol. The time is over—
Due and in some metropolitan station
Among the clank of cans and the roistering files
Of steam the caterpillars wait for wings.
from The Poetry Anthology (1912-2002)
ReplyDeleteJoseph Parisi and Stephen Young