[from Louis Simpson's At the End of the Open Road, 1960]
Mountains are moving, rivers
are hurrying. But we
We have the thoughts of giants—
clouds, and at night the stars.
And we have names — gutteral, grotesque —
Hamet, Og — names with no syllables.
And perish, one by one, our roots
gnawed by the mice. And fall.
And are too slow for death, and change
to stone. Or else too quick,
like candles in a fire. Giants
are lonely. We have waited long
for someone. By our waiting, surely
there must be someone at whose touch
our boughs would bend; and hands
to gather us; a spirit
to whom we are light as the hawthorn tree.
O if there is a poet
let him come now! We stand at the Pacific
like great unmarried girls,
turning in our heads the stars and clouds,
considering whom to please.
The storm broke, and it rained,
And water rose in the pool,
And frogs hopped into the gutter,
With their skins of yellow and green,
And just their eyes shining above the surface
Of the warm solution of shine.
At night, when fireflies trace
Light-lines between the trees and flowers
The frogs speak to each other
In rhythm. The sound is monstrous,
But their voices are filled with satisfaction.
In the city I pine for the country;
In the country I long for conversation—
Our happy croaking.