This dark hour

上午在网易公开课看了Robin Morgand的演讲视频：迟暮之歌，其中有一首诗名字叫做This dark hour,很喜欢，网上搜不到，于是就一边看一边记了下来。

Late summer,4A.M.

The rain slows to a stop,

dripping still from the broad leaves of blun hostas unseen in the garden’s dark.

Barefoot,careful on the slick slate slabs.

I need no light, I know the way,

stoop by the mint bed

scoop a fistful if moist earth

then gripe for a chair,spread a shank ,

and sit ,breathing in the wet green August air.

The is the small,still hour，

before the newspaper lands in the vestibule like a grenade,

the phone Sheila,the computer screen blinks and glares awak.

There is this hour:

poem in my head,soil in my hand:

unnamable fullness.

This hour ,when blood of my blood,bone of bone,child grown to manhood now,

stranger,intimate,not distant but apart,

lies safe,off dreaming melodies while love sleeps,safe,in his arms .

To have come to this place,

lived to this moment:

immeasurable lightness .

The density of black starts to blur umber.

Tentative,a cardinal’s coloratura,

then the morning dove’s elegy,

sable glimmers toward grey;

objects emerge,trailing shadows;

night ages toward day.

The city stirs.

There will be other dawns,nights,gaudy noons.

Likely,I’ll lose my way.

There will be stumbling,falling,cursing the dark .

Whatever comes,

there was this hour when nothing mattered ,

all was unbearably dear.

And when I’m done with daylights,

should those who loved me grieve too long a while .

Let them remember that I had this hour—this dark,perfect hour and smile.

This dark hour