He can read Spanish? No. Italian? No.
Why then so many poets lodged with care ,
It seems , well worn? Look on the shelf below ,
His keys to half the continent lie there .
Those massive lexicons ? What toil and pain
Through such a wilderness of words to track
A sense obscure ! His path lies smooth and plain ,
For him no forced delays , no turning back .
Why so ? Where rhythms coil he loves at sight
Some seven words , and seeks them . . . shadowed lawn
Summer . . . the moon . . . young love . . .
Sufficient light to dream , all comprehending , till the dawn .
31st December 1951