Of asphodel, that greeny flower,
                       
	              	like a buttercup
                       
		     	             	upon its branching stem—
                       
save that it's green and wooden—
                       
	              	I come, my sweet,
                       
			                           	to sing to you.
                       
We lived long together
                       
	           	a life filled,
                      
			              	if you will,
                       
with flowers.  So that 
                       
	            	I was cheered
                       
				                when I came first to know
                       
that there were flowers also
                       
	           	in hell.
                       
				           Today
                       
I'm filled with the fading memory of those flowers
                       
		                       that we both loved,
                       
			                                	even to this poor
                       
colorless thing—
                       
	                 	I saw it
                       
				                        when I was a child—
                       
little prized among the living
                       
		     but the dead see,
                       
				         asking among themselves:
                       
What do I remember
                       
	               	that was shaped
                       
				                as this thing is shaped?
                       
while our eyes fill
                       
	      	with tears.
                       
				          Of love, abiding love
                       
it will be telling
                       
	          	though too weak a wash of crimson
                       
			                	colors it
                       
to make it wholly credible.
                       
	          	There is something
                       
			            	something urgent
                       
I have to say to you
                       
	        	and you alone
                       
			           	but it must wait
                       
while I drink in
                       
	          	the joy of your approach,
                       
			             	perhaps for the last time.
                       
And so
                       
	          	with fear in my heart
                       
			              	I drag it out
                       
and keep on talking
                       
	          	for I dare not stop.
                       
			         	Listen while I talk on
                       
against time.
                       
	       	It will not be
                       
			        	for long.
                       
I have forgot
                       
	         	and yet I see clearly enough
                       
			         	something
                       
central to the sky
                       
		         which ranges round it.
                       
			           	An odor
                       
springs from it!
                       
		       A sweetest odor!
                       
				             Honeysuckle!  And now
                       
there comes the buzzing of a bee!
                       
		        and a whole flood
                       
				            of sister memories!
                       
Only give me time,
                       
		          time to recall them
                       
				                          before I shall speak out.
                       
Give me time,
                       
		                      time.
                       
When I was a boy
                       
		                   I kept a book
                       
			                               to which, from time
                       
to time,
                       
	                 	I added pressed flowers
                       
			                               	until, after a time,
                       
I had a good collection.
                       
		                      The asphodel,
                       
			                                     	forebodingly,
                       
among them.
                       
	                         	I bring you,
                       
			                                        	reawakened,
                       
a memory of those flowers.
                       
		                         They were sweet
                       
				                                   when I pressed them
                       
and retained
                       
		                     something of their sweetness
                       
			                           	a long time.
                       
It is a curious odor,
                       
		                           a moral odor,
                       
			                                     	that brings me
                       
near to you.
                       
		                    The color
                       
				                           was the first to go.
                       
There had come to me
                       
	                            	a challenge,
                       
			                                        	your dear self,
                       
mortal as I was,
                       
	                       	the lily's throat
                       
			                         	to the hummingbird!
                       
Endless wealth,
                       
	                    	I thought,
                       
			                       	held out its arms to me.
                       
A thousand tropics
                       
	                     	in an apple blossom.
                       
			                             	The generous earth itself
                       
gave us lief.
                       
	              	The whole world
                       
			                       	became my garden!
                       
But the sea
                       
	                 	which no one tends
                       
			                            	is also a garden
                       
when the sun strikes it
                       
	                    	and the waves
                       
			                            	are wakened.
                       
I have seen it
                       
		                 and so have you
                       
			                       	when it puts all flowers
                       
to shame.
                       
		             Too, there are the starfish
                       
			                        	stiffened by the sun
                       
and other sea wrack
                       
	                  	and weeds.  We knew that
                       
			                         	along with the rest of it
                       
for we were born by the sea,
                       
	                          	knew its rose hedges
                       
			                               	to the very water's brink.
                       
There the pink mallow grows
                       
		                    and in their season
                       
				                      strawberries
                       
and there, later,
                       
		                  we went to gather
                       
			                       	the wild plum.
                       
I cannot say
                       
	                	that I have gone to hell
                       
		                         		for your love
                       
but often
                       
	                  	found myself there
                       
			                              	in your pursuit.
                       
I do not like it
                       
	                   	and wanted to be
                       
			                            	in heaven.  Hear me out.
                       
Do not turn away.
                       
I have learned much in my life
                       
	                                    	from books
                       
			                                         	and out of them
                       
about love.
                       
	                   	Death
                       
			                          	is not the end of it.
                       
There is a hierarchy
                       
              		which can be attained,
                       
		                            		I think,
                       
in its service.
                       
	                       	Its guerdon
                       
			                                  	is a fairy flower;
                       
a cat of twenty lives.
                       
	                        	If no one came to try it
                       
			                                      	the world
                       
would be the loser.
                       
	                        	It has been
                       
			                                  	for you and me
                       
as one who watches a storm
                       
		                         come in over the water.
                       
			                                 	We have stood
                       
from year to year
                       
	                       	before the spectacle of our lives
                       
			                                 	with joined hands.
                       
The storm unfolds.
                       
	                     	Lightning
                       
			                                   	plays about the edges of the clouds.
                       
The sky to the north
                       
	                         	is placid,
                       
			                             	blue in the afterglow
                       
as the storm piles up.
                       
	                        	It is a flower
                       
			                               	that will soon reach
                       
the apex of its bloom.
                       
		                      We danced,
                       
			                                  	in our minds,
                       
and read a book together.
                       
	                             	You remember?
                       
			                                           	It was a serious book.
                       
And so books
                       
		                       entered our lives.
                       
The sea!  The sea!
                       
	                     	Always
                       
			                               	when I think of the sea
                       
there comes to mind
                       
	                          	the Iliad
                       
				                                 and Helen's public fault
                       
that bred it.
                       
		                 Were it not for that
                       
			                         	there would have been
                       
 no poem but the world
                       
	                          	if we had remembered,
                       
		                                      	those crimson petals
                       
spilled among the stones,
                       
	                       	would have called it simply
                       
			                              	murder.
                       
The sexual orchid that bloomed then
                       
	                     	sending so many 
                       
			                                 	disinterested
                       
men to their graves
                       
		                     has left its memory
                       
		                                   		to a race of fools
                       
or heroes
                       
	                     	if silence is a virtue.
                       
			                                   	The sea alone
                       
with its multiplicity
                       
	                        	holds any hope.
                       
			                                           	The storm
                       
has proven abortive
                       
	                          	but we remain
                       
			                                	after the thoughts it roused
                       
to 
                       
	                	re-cement our lives.
                       
			                             	It is the mind
                       
the mind
                       
	                   	that must be cured
                       
			                               	short of death's
                       
intervention,
                       
	                     	and the will becomes again
                       
			                             	a garden.  The poem
                       
is complex and the place made
                       
	                      	in our lives
                       
			                               	for the poem.
                       
Silence can be complex too,
                       
	                          	but you do not get far
                       
			                                 	with silence.
                       
Begin again.
                       
	                  	It is like Homer's
                       
			                             	catalogue of ships:
                       
it fills up the time.
                       
	                        	I speak in figures,
                       
			                                      	well enough, the dresses
                       
you wear are figures also,
                       
	                         	we could not meet
                       
			                                 	otherwise.  When I speak
                       
of flowers
                       
	                    	it is to recall
                       
			                              	that at one time
                       
we were young.
                       
	                   	All women are not Helen,
                       
		                          		I know that,
                       
but have Helen in their hearts.
                       
	                   	My sweet,
                       
			                                 	you have it also, therefore
                       
I love you
                       
	                           	and could not love you otherwise.
                       
				                                              Imagine you saw
                       
a field made up of women
                       
	                                	all silver-white.
                       
			                                           	What should you do
                       
but love them?
                       
		                             The storm bursts
                       
		                                                		or fades!  it is not
                       
the end of the world.
                       
	                             	Love is something else,
                       
		                                            		or so I thought it,
                       
a garden which expands,
                       
	                         	though I knew you as a woman
                       
				                                        and never thought otherwise,
                       
until the whole sea
                       
	                            	has been taken up
                       
		                                             		and all its gardens.
                       
It was the love of love,
                       
	                     	the love that swallows up all else,
                       
			                                    	a grateful love,
                       
a love of nature, of people,
                       
	                       	of animals,
                       
			                           	a love engendering
                       
gentleness and goodness
                       
	                     	that moved me
                       
			                              	and that I saw in you.
                       
I should have known,
                       
	                        	though I did not,
                       
			                              	that the lily-of-the-valley
                       
is a flower makes many ill
                       
	                         	who whiff it.
                       
			                                     	We had our children,
                       
rivals in the general onslaught.
                       
	                    	I put them aside
                       
			                           	though I cared for them.
                       
as well as any man
                       
	                   	could care for his children
                       
			                          	according to my lights.
                       
You understand
                       
	                   	I had to meet you
                       
			                               	after the event
                       
and have still to meet you.
                       
	                    	Love
                       
		                           		to which you too shall bow
                       
along with me-
                       
	                    	a flower
                       
		                         		a weakest flower
                       
shall be our trust
                       
	                    	and not because
                       
		                                  		we are too feeble
                       
to do otherwise
                       
	                     	but because
                       
			                     	at the height of my power
                       
I risked what I had to do,
                       
		                  therefore to prove
                       
			                        	that we love each other
                       
while my very bones sweated
                       
	                      	that I could not cry to you
                       
			                                       	in the act.
                       
Of asphodel, that greeny flower,
                       
	                           	I come, my sweet,
                       
		                                  		to sing to you!
                       
My heart rouses
                       
	                      	thinking to bring you news
                       
			                                      	of something
                       
that concerns you
                       
	                       	and concerns many men.  Look at
                       
			                                       	what passes for the new.
                       
You will not find it there but in
                       
		                               despised poems.
                       
			                                               	It is difficult
                       
to get the news from poems
                       
	                              	yet men die miserably every day
                                                      
			                                                   	for lack
                       
of what is found there.
                       
	                         	Hear me out
                       
			                                        	for I too am concerned
                       
and every man
                       
	                      	who wants to die at peace in his bed
                       
			                                     	besides.