Donald Davie
Two Medallions
(1)
Rousseau in His Day
So many nights the solitary lamp had burned;
So many nights his lone mind, slowing down
Deliberately, had questioned, as it turned
Mooning upon its drying stem, what arc
Over a lifetime day had moved him through.
Always he hoped he might deserve a Plutarch,
Not to be one posterity forgot.
Nor have we. He has left his mark: one tight
Inched-around circuit of the screw of light,
As glowing shadows track the life of roses
Over unchosen soil-crumbs. It was not
What he’d expected or the world supposes.
(2)
The Departed
They see his face!
Live in the light of . . .
Such shadows as they must
cast, sharp-edged:
the whole floor, said to be crystal,
barry with them. And long!
Spokes that reach even to us,
pinned as we are to the rim.
Page(s) 3
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