Ancient Poet in a Print
These windows that were nearly covered in summer
With vines of a green hinting at blue
(Something listened in the dark behind the screen
To summer insects and the clomp of large animals
Breaking the brush, striking against low branches)
Are tufted with snow, steamed with the heat of the house.
He is thin in the tradition, he wears a cap
Maybe to protect a bald head, the rest of him
In a skimpy cloth coat. It’s so cold you imagine him
Shivering, and pity the carelessness of age
(Not remembering that he always was careless).
You cannot see his eyes, for his face is turned
Toward the forest, listening. If you could see them
You would not pity him. He has seen enough snow
To feel himself one of the trees in the forest
That has been everywhere and done everything. His eyes
Grow in his face like knots, in the wood of his body
Is another tree, listening for the steps of the hare.
—Charles Black
—found in Antioch Review (Autumn 1958; Vol. 18, No. 3)