Waiting by the stairs, in the hall
Where the panelling is white
With moonlight: one vertical figure, black, upright
As principle.
Waiting in the leaves, as they blow,
Pile the voices of the night
On the paths: lone diffuse shadow, light, as low
As Longing.
Caught as in a trap, in the No
Of the creaking hallowed walls
The one turned to the leaded window pane, sure
He heard someone out there.
Scattered in a shower
Of passing breezes, shades of many forming one
Pepper with their glances the stone glowering down... Come
The day and each will see the other as reflections in the glass
Of the window, and forget- or shun
The half-knowing of memory- and let time pass.
Till. Spiky yew and churchyard dew under one
Headstone bury two, still wondering, at the last.
Richard Blanch
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/blind-narcissus/
