William Goyen is no more hereabouts
Upon hurt wings; nor in coiled whorling turns
Of topping bass; nor in pink salem coals
Does his flesh steam; nor in pearl-toned moon routs
Does he observe the antic faerie trolls
Bestirring shadows where the foxfire burns.
William Goyen has been here and gone. S
lashed silver dews upon Bermuda show,
Perhaps, his trail of flight. No house of breath
Now clasps him pained in fevered blood and bone
So long as meadows green and ghastly go
At last between the purple peaks of death.
Now in a farther country said and done
He is escaped. The silly TVs yowl
As if no passing has been made.
Aright Is ignorance. Let secret be the run
Of his rare spirit, watched by the wild owl
Alone, who guards the lores and lairs of Night.