Landscape with Story

Richmond Lattimore

Drenched in wet silver, pale with olive, and still
with flowers upon the folded hands of day,
the garden at the bottom of the hill

sleeps in arrested expectation. Mail
dramatic on the outline of the rock,
a black knight rides his armor down the trail

in quest of histories lived long ago.
Where are our amoureuses? Are they all gone?
But in the lyric valley, dreams below,

memory burns the banners of old nights;
the chimes of stars turn pale upon the hour;
and there, as gardens dawn, and as the lights

of twelve day-candles wink out one by one,
my love walks tenderly where cherubim
choir their rosalbas in the silver sun.