“A poem is an invocation, rebellious return to the blessedness of beginning again, wandering free in pure process of forgetting and finding. ”
—Susan Howe, Academy of American Poets Chancellor (2000–2006)
Now the dead past seems vividly alive,
And in this shining moment I can trace,
Down through the vista of the vanished years,
Your faun-like form, your fond elusive face.
And unawares a riddle is revealed,
And I can read like large, black-lettered print,
What seemed before a thing forever sealed.
The song that fills me in my lucid hours,
The spirit’s wine that thrills my body through,
And makes me music-drunk, are yours, all yours.