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Yvor Winters

Yvor Winters

An October Nocturne

The night was faint and sheer;
Immobile, road and dune.
Then, for a moment, clear,
A plane moved past the moon.
 
O spirit cool and frail,
Hung in the lunar fire!
Spun wire and brittle veil!
And tremblingly slowly higher!
 
Pure in each proven line!
The balance and the aim,
Half empty, half divine!
I saw how true you came.
 
Dissevered from your cause,
Your function was your goal.
Oblivious of my laws,
You made your calm patrol.

#AmericanWriters

Otras obras de Yvor Winters...
Two Songs of Advent

On the desert, between pale mounta… Far whispers creeping through an a… Coyote, on delicate mocking feet, Hovers down the canyon, among the… His voice running wild in the wind…
The Journey

Snake River Country I now remembered slowly how I cam… I, sometime living, sometime with… Creeping by iron ways across the b… Wastes of Wyoming, turning in des…
The Marriage

Incarnate for our marriage you app… Flesh living in the spirit and end… By minor graces and slow, sensual… Through every nerve we made our sp… We fed our minds on every mortal t…
 1
To the Holy Spirit

Immeasurable haze: The desert valley spreads Up golden river-beds As if in other days. Trees rise and thin away,
 1
Night of Battle

Europe: 1944 as regarded from a great distance Impersonal the aim Where giant movements tend; Each man appears the same;
To a Young Writer

Achilles Holt, Stanford, 1930 Here for a few short years Strengthen affections; meet, Later, the dull arrears Of age, and be discreet.
Song

Where I walk out to meet you on the cloth of burning fields the goldfinches
Moonrise

The branches, jointed, pointing up and out, shine out like brass. Upon the heavy
The Fable

Beyond the steady rock the steady… In movement more immovable than st… Gathers and washes and is gone. I… A slow obscure metonymy of motion, Crumbling the inner barriers of th…
To Emily Dickinson

Dear Emily, my tears would burn y… But for the fire-dry line that mak… Burning my eyes, my fingers, while… Singly the words that crease my he… If I could make some tortured pil…
On Teaching the Young

The young are quick of speech. Grown middle-aged, I teach Corrosion and distrust, Exacting what I must. A poem is what stands
On a View of Pasadena From the Hills

From the high terrace porch I wat… No light appears, though dark has… Sunk from the cold and monstrous s… Lie naked but not light. The dark… Down the remoter gulleys; pooled,…
Sir Gawaine and the Green Knight

Reptilian green the wrinkled throa… Green as a bough of yew the beard; He bent his head, and so I smote; Then for a thought my vision clear… The head dropped clean; he rose an…
One Ran Before

I could tell Of silence where One ran before Himself and fell Into silence
At the San Francisco Airport

This is the terminal: the light Gives perfect vision, false and ha… The metal glitters, deep and brigh… Great planes are waiting in the ya… They are already in the night.



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