Monday, August 24, 2009

The House - Richard Wilbur

by Richard Wilbur

Sometimes, on waking, she would close her eyes
For a last look at that white house she knew
In sleep alone, and held no title to,
And had not entered yet, for all her sighs.
What did she tell me of that house of hers?
White gatepost; terrace; fanlight of the door;
A widow’s walk above the bouldered shore;
Salt winds that ruffle the surrounding firs.
Is she now there, wherever there may be?
Only a foolish man would hope to find
That haven fashioned by her dreaming mind.
Night after night, my love, I put to sea.

(The New Yorker AUGUST 31, 2009)


Doug said...

Thanks so much for the link to the other Wilbur poem -- "The Writer." So great! Wow.

gloryoski said...

Holy shit is that pretty. I'm glad I remembered to come here today.