theparisreview
theparisreview:

The sun is a drum                              the moon is a cymbalThe flow of time is caught in a cup.
Cupful by                  cupful by                                   cupful timeis cut; if not,                     we should choke.
By night in the northern quarter the Dipperor Northern Ladle or Bushel Measureturns like the hand of a clock measuring timealthough no punctuating tick or tocknotches its arc, sunset to sunrise.
Its handle divides the year into seasons,pointing towards earth at dusk in autumn,upward at dusk in spring, in wintertwilight west, in summer east.
And so it is and was and shall bebut not world without end (and neitherwas it so from the world’s beginning).
—Mary Barnard, from “Song for the Northern Quarter”Art Credit Christopher Pratt

theparisreview:

The sun is a drum
                              the moon is a cymbal
The flow of time is caught in a cup.

Cupful by
                  cupful by
                                   cupful time
is cut; if not,
                     we should choke.

By night in the northern quarter the Dipper
or Northern Ladle or Bushel Measure
turns like the hand of a clock measuring time
although no punctuating tick or tock
notches its arc, sunset to sunrise.

Its handle divides the year into seasons,
pointing towards earth at dusk in autumn,
upward at dusk in spring, in winter
twilight west, in summer east.

And so it is and was and shall be
but not world without end (and neither
was it so from the world’s beginning).

Mary Barnard, from “Song for the Northern Quarter”
Art Credit Christopher Pratt

theparisreview
theparisreview:

It’s raining hard today.The day is more like night,the spring is more like fall,and in the yard a driving wind lays wasteto the little tree that, seeming not to, standssteady and firm; it seems among the plantslike a too-green adolescent grown too tall.You watch it. It may beyour pity stirs for all of those white flowersthe north wind strips from it; and they are fruit,sweet preserves we setaside for winter, those fallen flowers spreadacross the grass. And your vast maternityaches for them, all.
—Umberto Saba, “The Little Tree”Photography Credit Mark Steinmetz

theparisreview:

It’s raining hard today.
The day is more like night,
the spring is more like fall,
and in the yard a driving wind lays waste
to the little tree that, seeming not to, stands
steady and firm; it seems among the plants
like a too-green adolescent grown too tall.
You watch it. It may be
your pity stirs for all of those white flowers
the north wind strips from it; and they are fruit,
sweet preserves we set
aside for winter, those fallen flowers spread
across the grass. And your vast maternity
aches for them, all.

Umberto Saba, “The Little Tree”
Photography Credit Mark Steinmetz