| The Swift Fund for the Arts |
White Noise II
Dorothy Z Swift. Copyright 1992,2005 Swift Fund for the Arts.
At this season, sometimes at noon and sometimes at twilight,
I often wonder if I will ever
Have learned to cultivate and
Have ready for friend and foe alike
The perfect, abstract, gestural rose.
At other times, when I've been out among the roses
Those who've walked by have stopped to talk about this or that
plant,
Have stopped to ask for flowers to wear or gather,
I know better.
I don't suppose I'll ever
Learn to be more than my own last duchess,
Sometimes fond, too often foolish.
And there'll be no finished image
In that, nothing to be fixed forever
In my own or anyone else's view.
But most often when I'm out among the roses at this season, whether
It's morning or noon or evening,
There's need for little more than revelry among the very real roses,
These legions -- myriads, of white:
Kaiserin Auguste Viktoria, Frau Karl Druschki;
Ghislaine de Fèligonde, Madame Alfred Carrière;
Sombreuil, Merveille de Lyon.
Each has its own kind of flowers, and each upon each,
They've clambered along the fence, then climbed
To the highest of the trees, to shower down
Perfect small pillows of perfume, each after each.
The air is alive with their freshest silks
And thinnest satins:
Scents of cinnamon and lemon
And apricot and milky white tea.
Enswarming, gesturing among one another.
I wonder. Would it be wrong to suppose
That you, too, have known --
Will someday know --
The lively graces and favors of very real roses?
Their perpetual promise of forgiveness and blessing?
There's need for little more than revelry among the very real roses,
These legions -- myriads, of white:
Kaiserin Auguste Viktoria, Frau Karl Druschki;
Ghislaine de Fèligonde, Madame Alfred Carrière;
Sombreuil, Merveille de Lyon.
Each has its own kind of flowers, and each upon each,
They've clambered along the fence, then climbed
To the highest of the trees, to shower down
Perfect small pillows of perfume, each after each.
The air is alive with their freshest silks
And thinnest satins:
Scents of cinnamon and lemon
And apricot and milky white tea.
Enswarming, gesturing among one another.
I wonder. Would it be wrong to suppose
That you, too, have known --
Will someday know --
The lively graces and favors of very real roses?
Their perpetual promise of forgiveness and blessing?
Dorothy Z Swift. Copyright 1992,2005 Swift Fund for the Arts.
At this season, sometimes at noon and sometimes at twilight,
I often wonder if I will ever
Have learned to cultivate and
Have ready for friend and foe alike
The perfect, abstract, gestural rose.
At other times, when I've been out among the roses
Those who've walked by have stopped to talk about this or that
plant,
Have stopped to ask for flowers to wear or gather,
I know better.
I don't suppose I'll ever
Learn to be more than my own last duchess,
Sometimes fond, too often foolish.
And there'll be no finished image
In that, nothing to be fixed forever
In my own or anyone else's view.
But most often when I'm out among the roses at this season, whether
It's morning or noon or evening,
There's need for little more than revelry among the very real roses,
These legions -- myriads, of white:
Kaiserin Auguste Viktoria, Frau Karl Druschki;
Ghislaine de Fèligonde, Madame Alfred Carrière;
Sombreuil, Merveille de Lyon.
Each has its own kind of flowers, and each upon each,
They've clambered along the fence, then climbed
To the highest of the trees, to shower down
Perfect small pillows of perfume, each after each.
The air is alive with their freshest silks
And thinnest satins:
Scents of cinnamon and lemon
And apricot and milky white tea.
Enswarming, gesturing among one another.
I wonder. Would it be wrong to suppose
That you, too, have known --
Will someday know --
The lively graces and favors of very real roses?
Their perpetual promise of forgiveness and blessing?
There's need for little more than revelry among the very real roses,
These legions -- myriads, of white:
Kaiserin Auguste Viktoria, Frau Karl Druschki;
Ghislaine de Fèligonde, Madame Alfred Carrière;
Sombreuil, Merveille de Lyon.
Each has its own kind of flowers, and each upon each,
They've clambered along the fence, then climbed
To the highest of the trees, to shower down
Perfect small pillows of perfume, each after each.
The air is alive with their freshest silks
And thinnest satins:
Scents of cinnamon and lemon
And apricot and milky white tea.
Enswarming, gesturing among one another.
I wonder. Would it be wrong to suppose
That you, too, have known --
Will someday know --
The lively graces and favors of very real roses?
Their perpetual promise of forgiveness and blessing?
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