A Purgatory

Once more the hills

are made of remembered darkness torn off

and the eye rises from its grave

upon its old

upon its ancient life

but at a wrong moment

once more the eye

reveals the empty river

feathers on all the paths

the despairing fields

the house in which every word

faces a wall

and once more it climbs

trying to cast again

the light in which that landscape

' was a prospect of heaven

everywhere

the vision has just passed out of sight

like the shadows sinking

into the waking stones

each shadow with a dream in its arms

each shadow with the same

dream in its arms

and the eye must burn again and again

through each of its lost moments

until it sees