Old Poet with Distant Admirers
What I lost was not a part of this.
The dark-blistered foxgloves, wet berries
Glinting from shadow, small ferns and stones,
Seem fragments, in the observing mind,
Of its ritual power. Old age
Singles them out as though by first-light,
As though a still-life, preserving some
Portion of the soul's feast, went with me
Everywhere, to be hung in strange rooms,
Loneliness being what it is. If
I knew the exact coin for tribute,
Defeat might be bought, processional
Silence gesture its tokens of earth
At my mouth: as in the great death-songs
Of Propertius (althoug he died young).
Geoffrey Hill, Selected Poems, Penguin Books, 2006
What I lost was not a part of this.
The dark-blistered foxgloves, wet berries
Glinting from shadow, small ferns and stones,
Seem fragments, in the observing mind,
Of its ritual power. Old age
Singles them out as though by first-light,
As though a still-life, preserving some
Portion of the soul's feast, went with me
Everywhere, to be hung in strange rooms,
Loneliness being what it is. If
I knew the exact coin for tribute,
Defeat might be bought, processional
Silence gesture its tokens of earth
At my mouth: as in the great death-songs
Of Propertius (althoug he died young).
Geoffrey Hill, Selected Poems, Penguin Books, 2006
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