-een

The darkened evening spreads against the sky
But not enough to make the little lights
Sufficient in defiance of the night's
Clouded and moonless vision. This is why
We fear the twilight, why we always fly
From day to night, abolishing dusk's rights,
Pretending not to see the eerie sights
The half-light shows. But every by-and-by
We have to venture out just as the sun
Slips out of view, before the night is here,
And feel the danger pulsing in the air;
When something neither ended nor begun
Lies heavy on the world. Then we must fear
What would would swear both is and is not there.

Type

The very tinkling of her typing keys
Reminds me of the days we were apart
When I was still uncertain we would start
To love each other; when I still would freeze
With fear that I would somehow her displease
And she would just log off. My aching heart
Could not then have endured that sudden smart
Although it could stand worse pains by degrees.
But though I am reminded of those days
I find that I no longer fear their pain;
I know that I am hers, she mine always
To my heart's solace and my joyful gain.
So as she sets the keyboard all ablaze
I sit and listen while my old fears wane.

The Same, Continued

Had I the power to express your face
In colored lines unto my satisfaction
I would not bate a minute of my pace
To bring that claim into the name of action.
I would with practiced hand lay out each line
To make you see yourself as I perceive;
And in a later age each stroke of mine
Would make those who can never see you grieve.
But I cannot paint pictures to my sight
Or even with my words sufficiently.
It must suffice me to say "if I might"
And then regret my inability.
But know when I see life in art made true
I wish that I could do the same for you.

John L. Severance Fund 1971.136

She stares at me across two thousand years
Asking perhaps if I remember her
If all the rites: the funerary tears,
The preservation, pickling in myrrh,
The artful wrapping up of what remained,
The portrait placed with care upon the sheet,
Had stopped forgetfulness. Her eyes are strained,
As if each visitor she heard repeat
The same refrain--young woman, Antonine,
Unknown--had drained a little more
Of that which made an artist now unseen
Paint her so true. Two thousand years she wore
And yet if I but spoke her name, I'd swear
She'd raise her eyes and life would still be there.