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Afoot, on horseback, with bugles and baying
hounds,
We looked down at last on the wilderness of the Idea,
Sulfur yellow like an aspen forest in late fall
(If the memory of a previous life does not deceive me),
Though it was not a wood, but a tangle of inorganic forms,
Chlorine vapor and mercury and iridescence of crystals.
I glanced at our company: bows, muskets,
A five-shot rifle, here and there a sling.
And the outfits! The latest fashions from the year one thousand
Or, for variety, top hats such as Kierkegaard,
The preacher, used to wear on his walks.
Not an imposing crew. Though, in fact, the Idea
Was dangerous to our kind no more, even in its lair.
To assault poor shepherds, farmhands, lumberjacks
Was its specialty, since it had changed its habits.
And the youngsters above all. Tormenting them with dreams
Of justice on earth and the Island of the Sun.
Berkeley, 1976 |
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Translated by Czeslaw Milosz and Robert Hass
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