I have been reading Donald Hall's
new book called Essays After Eighty.
I saw him stare at me from the library shelf:
"New poems no longer come to me, with their prodigies
of metaphor and assonance. Prose endures."
First essay is Out the Window which he said was
featured on Fresh Air after it was published. Later,
he was interviewed after this book was out.
Here is his wife's poem for this evening. Jane Kenyon
died in 1995 at age 47. It is very beautiful. Behold.
Let Evening Come
Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.
Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.
Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.
Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.
To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.
Let it come, as it will, and don’t
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.