ANNE KNISH _Opus 135_
IN a tomb of Argolis, Under an arch of great stones, Where my eyes were sightless, groping, I touched this figment of clay.
Forgotten vase of immemorial Greece, Colorless form!
I have entered to the blind dark Of the tomb where you have slept forever And with the dreams of my importunate hands I touch you in the profound darkness.
You are cold and estranged; Yet the ends of my fingers cling to your porous surface.
You are thin and very tall; My palm can cover your mouth.
Your lip curves but a little; Around your throat My two hands meet, And then part as I follow the swelling Rhythm that downward widens, And I pa.s.s around and under, And the returning line Ebbs home.
Beneath your feet I touch cold marble; My hand returns To sleep upon your breast Dreaming it warm.
EMANUEL MORGAN _Opus 79_
ONLY the wise can see me in the mist, For only lovers know that I am here After his piping, shall the organist Be portly and appear?
Pew after pew, Wave after wave . . .
Shall the digger dig and then undo His own dear grave?
Hear me in the playing Of a big bra.s.s band . . .
See me, straying With children hand in hand . . .
Smell me, a dead fish . . .
Taste me, a rotten tree. . . .
Someday touch me, all you wish, In the wide sea.