Fountain in the Garden of Saint Paul Hospital
In my glad hours, I will make a city of your smile, a distant city that shines and lives. I will take one word of yours to be an island on which birches stand, or fir trees, quite still and ceremonial. I will receive your glance as a fountain in which things can disappear and above which the sky trembles, both eager and afraid to fall in.
I will know that all of this exists, that one can enter this city, that I have glimpsed this island and know exactly when there is no one else beside that fountain. But if I appear to hesitate, it is because I am not sure whether it is the forest through which we are walking or my own mood that is shaded and dark.
Who knows: maybe Venice, too, is just a feeling.
I find this a very beautiful piece of writing about loneliness and longing for the beloved who is far away, while clouded by doubts and shadows. . . "if I appear to hesitate . . ." — this part, as if to say: If I am sad and in doubt, it could be about me, my mood, not us. And yes, Venice, a physical place apart, a presence in the heart, / never lost . . .ReplyDelete
"In my glad hours, I will make a city of your smile" . . . , built, strong, impregnable, to go to . . . "and one word of yours to be an island . . ."
How lovely, how bittersweet!
Lovely commentary, Ruth.ReplyDelete
Oh, my . . . .ReplyDelete
wow! i found his first words to be the most neautiful love poem ever written. seems it shouldve been sealed.ReplyDelete
but then further thought and words brought doubt
as to the very possibility of love.
the combination was so human and flawed and saddened me.
(i can't comment ruth, except as name or anonymous-for some reason it just will not believe i'm signed in. oh, well)