Wednesday, 7 September 2011

'Here' and 'High Windows'

Both poems seem to end on a similar note, a kind of divine resignation (this was a phrase Conrad used to describe the Russians) without the divinity, so to speak (no sweating in the dark), and with a delicate yearning - for what?  The freedom of wordlessness?
                                     Here is unfenced existence:
Facing the sun, untalkative, out of reach.

                          the deep blue air, that shows
Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.

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