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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=481194" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Man Meets A Woman In The Street</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Under the separated leaves of shade <br>Of the gingko, that old tree <br>That has existed essentially unchanged <br>Longer than any other living tree, <br>I walk behind a woman. Her hair's coarse gold <br>Is spun from the sunlight that it rides upon. <br>Women were paid to knit from sweet champagne <br>Her second skin: it winds and unwinds, winds <br>Up her long legs, delectable haunches, <br>As she sways, in sunlight, up the gazing aisle. <br>The shade of the tree that is called maidenhair, <br>That is not positively known <br>To exist in a wild state, spots her fair or almost fair <br>Hair twisted in a French twist; tall or almost tall, <br>She walks through the air the rain has washed, a clear thing <br>Moving easily on its high heels, seeming to men <br>Miraculous...Since I can call her, as Swann couldn't <br>A woman who is my type, I follow with the warmth <br>Of familiarity, of novelty, this new <br>Example of the type, <br>Reminded of how Lorenz's just-hatched goslings <br>Shook off the last remnants of the egg <br>And, looking at Lorenz, realized that Lorenz <br>Was their mother. Quaking, his little family <br>Followed him everywhere; and when they met a goose, <br>Their mother, they ran to him afraid. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Imprinted upon me <br>Is the shape I run to, the sweet strange <br>Breath-taking contours that breathe to me: 'I am yours, <br>Be mine!' <br>Following this new <br>Body, somehow familiar, this young shape, somehow old, <br>For a moment I'm younger, the century is younger. <br>the living Strauss, his moustache just getting gray, <br>Is shouting to the players: 'Louder! <br>Louder! I can still hear Madame Schumann-Heink-' <br>Or else, white, bald, the old man's joyfully <br>Telling conductors they must play Elektra <br>Like A Midsummer Night's Dream -like a fairy music; <br>Proust, dying, is swallowing his iced beer <br>And changing in proof the death of Bergotte <br>According to his own experience; Garbo, <br>A commissar in Paris, is listening attentively <br>To the voice telling how McGillicuddy me McGillivray, <br>And McGillivray said to McGillicuddy-no, McGillicuddy <br>Said to McGillivray-that is, McGillivray...Garbo <br>Says seriously: 'I vish dey'd never met.' </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>As I walk behind this woman I remember <br>That before I flew here-waked in the forest <br>At dawn, by the piece called Birds Beginning Day <br>That, each day, birds play to begin the day- <br>I wished as men wish: 'May this day be different!' <br>The birds were wishing, as birds wish-over and over, <br>With a last firmness, intensity, reality- <br>'May this day be the same!' <br>Ah, turn to me <br>And look into my eyes, say: 'I am yours, <br>Be mine!' <br>My wish will have come true. And yet <br>When your eyes meet my eyes, they'll bring into <br>The weightlessness of my pure wish the weight <br>Of a human being: someone to help or hurt, <br>Someone to be good to me, to be good to, <br>Someone to cry when I am angry <br>that she doesn't like Elektra, someone to start on Proust with. <br>A wish, come true, is life. I have my life. <br>When you turn just slide your eyes across my eyes <br>And show in a look flickering across your face <br>As lightly as a leaf's shade, a bird's wing, <br>That there is no one in the world quit like me, <br>That if only...If only... <br>That will be enough. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>But I've pretended long enough: I walk faster <br>And come close, touch with the tip of my finger <br>The nape of her neck, just where the gold <br>Hair stops, and the champagne-colored dress begins. <br>My finger touches her as the gingko's shadow <br>Touches her. <br>Because, after all, it is my wife <br>In a new dress from Bergdorf's, walking toward the park. <br>She cries out, we kiss each other, and walk arm in arm <br>Through the sunlight that's much too good for New York, <br>The sunlight of our own house in the forest. <br>Still, though, the poor things need it...We've no need <br>To start out on Proust, to ask each other about Strauss. <br>We first helped each other, hurt each other, years ago. <br>After so many changes made and joys repeated, <br>Our first bewildered, transcending recognition <br>Is pure acceptance. We can't tell our life <br>From our wish. Really I began the day <br>Not with a man's wish: 'May this day be different,' <br>But with the birds' wish: 'May this day <br>Be the same day, the day of my life.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Randall+Jarrell">Randall Jarrell</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=481194" data-title="A Man Meets A Woman In The Street de Randall Jarrell" data-description="Under the separated leaves of shade 
Of the gingko, that old tree 
That has existed essentially unchanged 
Longer than any other living tree, 
I walk behind a woman. Her hair's coarse gold 
Is spun from the sunlight that it rides upon. 
Women were..."></div>
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