I’m coming back and find
This lonely, despairing house
That’s down in the waste, yet sturdy land,
Broken up like a lonely shell at sea,
That, found by fishermen,
Spills out gold and jewels, unthought of
In the well-known stories of the past.
A stormy wind churns up the waves
That lap around this island;
It is driven by the hymns of youth —
The stories of our dancing and laughing.
Do you remember
That marionette’s play?
And do you remember
That sweet foxen’s brush
That touched your beauty’s wings?
But if these stories — full of lyrical achievement —
Unfold like misleading words,
Like a trance of street-worn beggars
That promised a tale of wine and beer,
Unfulfilled in the tragedy of night?
And if I travelled far and wandered wide
And still have no photograph of reality?
Then the river may have mercy,
Tombstones loom up against the sky.
And if I have been right,
Then my ways never ought to alter.
Although I’m not ready to augur changes of fate,
I’ll be satisfied and composed
To await the ways of mortal variation.
