I wish I had known you better, there always seemed to be something going on and now it’s too late. As I sit here thinking about what I should have said to you all my muse wants is poetry.
Every year without knowing it I have passed the day
When the last fires will wave to me
And the silence will set out
Tireless traveller
Like the beam of a lightless star
Then I will no longer
Find myself in life as in a strange garment
Surprised at the earth
And the love of one woman
And the shamelessness of men
As today writing after three days of rain
Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease
And bowing not knowing to what
Death
White hand
The moths fly at in the darkness
I took you for the moon rising
Whose light then
do you reflect
As though it came out of the roots of things
This harvest pallor in which
I have no shadow but myself
— W.S. Merwin, from The Lice, 1967
Sitting over words
very late I have heard a kind of whispered sighing
not far
like a night wind in pines or like the sea in the dark
the echo of everything that has ever
been spoken
still spinning its one syllable
between the earth and silence
— W.S. Merwin
lyncrain 
Reblogged this on CRAIN'S COMMENTS and commented:
Listening to a report on CBS’s “Sunday Morning” about why Denmark is the “happiest” country in the world, it makes perfect sense that life is not about what we have, but how we make others feel. And that fits with these poems about passing.
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Lyn! W.S. Merwin is one of my **favorite** poets! I loved the first poem in this post. Gosh. Thank you!
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