Dressed as the garden muse
she came to me and said,
You see me on the grass
now, give me some words, now,
give me new words
never before said.
I sent her packing.
If she had given me speech
I would put this half-tamed grass,
I would put the clear sky
and the baring trees
into a language not yet spoken.
Said she, You do not understand.
Said I, I understand too well.
If I have to give you words
you are no muse but fake.
Whereon she faded,
one of her own tricks.
I thought how the true guide
had filled and crammed this field
with outdoor light
and now stood quiet
beside the sundial.
Across the apple trees
I felt low sun
reflect a freshness
in its departing hour,
while footsteps crept away,
leaves and words merged
in the darkening woods.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem