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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=529056" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Far Field</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I dream of journeys repeatedly:<br>Of flying like a bat deep into a narrowing tunnel<br>Of driving alone, without luggage, out a long peninsula,<br>The road lined with snow-laden second growth,<br>A fine dry snow ticking the windshield,<br>Alternate snow and sleet, no on-coming traffic,<br>And no lights behind, in the blurred side-mirror,<br>The road changing from glazed tarface to a rubble of stone,<br>Ending at last in a hopeless sand-rut,<br>Where the car stalls,<br>Churning in a snowdrift<br>Until the headlights darken. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">II</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At the field's end, in the corner missed by the mower,<br>Where the turf drops off into a grass-hidden culvert,<br>Haunt of the cat-bird, nesting-place of the field-mouse,<br>Not too far away from the ever-changing flower-dump,<br>Among the tin cans, tires, rusted pipes, broken machinery, --<br>One learned of the eternal;<br>And in the shrunken face of a dead rat, eaten by rain and ground-beetles<br>(I found in lying among the rubble of an old coal bin)<br>And the tom-cat, caught near the pheasant-run,<br>Its entrails strewn over the half-grown flowers,<br>Blasted to death by the night watchman.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I suffered for young birds, for young rabbits caught in the mower,<br>My grief was not excessive.<br>For to come upon warblers in early May<br>Was to forget time and death:<br>How they filled the oriole's elm, a twittering restless cloud, all one morning,<br>And I watched and watched till my eyes blurred from the bird shapes, -- <br>Cape May, Blackburnian, Cerulean, -- <br>Moving, elusive as fish, fearless, <br>Hanging, bunched like young fruit, bending the end branches,<br>Still for a moment,<br>Then pitching away in half-flight,<br>Lighter than finches,<br>While the wrens bickered and sang in the half-green hedgerows,<br>And the flicker drummed from his dead tree in the chicken-yard.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">-- Or to lie naked in sand,<br>In the silted shallows of a slow river,<br>Fingering a shell,<br>Thinking:<br>Once I was something like this, mindless,<br>Or perhaps with another mind, less peculiar;<br>Or to sink down to the hips in a mossy quagmire;<br>Or, with skinny knees, to sit astride a wet log,<br>Believing:<br>I'll return again,<br>As a snake or a raucous bird,<br>Or, with luck, as a lion.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I learned not to fear infinity,<br>The far field, the windy cliffs of forever,<br>The dying of time in the white light of tomorrow,<br>The wheel turning away from itself,<br>The sprawl of the wave,<br>The on-coming water.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">III</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The river turns on itself,<br>The tree retreats into its own shadow.<br>I feel a weightless change, a moving forward<br>As of water quickening before a narrowing channel<br>When banks converge, and the wide river whitens;<br>Or when two rivers combine, the blue glacial torrent<br>And the yellowish-green from the mountainy upland, -- <br>At first a swift rippling between rocks,<br>Then a long running over flat stones<br>Before descending to the alluvial plane,<br>To the clay banks, and the wild grapes hanging from the elmtrees.<br>The slightly trembling water<br>Dropping a fine yellow silt where the sun stays;<br>And the crabs bask near the edge,<br>The weedy edge, alive with small snakes and bloodsuckers, -- <br>I have come to a still, but not a deep center,<br>A point outside the glittering current;<br>My eyes stare at the bottom of a river,<br>At the irregular stones, iridescent sandgrains,<br>My mind moves in more than one place,<br>In a country half-land, half-water.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I am renewed by death, thought of my death,<br>The dry scent of a dying garden in September,<br>The wind fanning the ash of a low fire.<br>What I love is near at hand,<br>Always, in earth and air. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">IV</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The lost self changes,<br>Turning toward the sea,<br>A sea-shape turning around, -- <br>An old man with his feet before the fire,<br>In robes of green, in garments of adieu.<br>A man faced with his own immensity<br>Wakes all the waves, all their loose wandering fire.<br>The murmur of the absolute, the why<br>Of being born falls on his naked ears.<br>His spirit moves like monumental wind<br>That gentles on a sunny blue plateau.<br>He is the end of things, the final man.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All finite things reveal infinitude: <br>The mountain with its singular bright shade<br>Like the blue shine on freshly frozen snow, <br>The after-light upon ice-burdened pines;<br>Odor of basswood on a mountain-slope,<br>A scent beloved of bees;<br>Silence of water above a sunken tree : <br>The pure serene of memory in one man, --<br>A ripple widening from a single stone<br>Winding around the waters of the world.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Theodore+Roethke">Theodore Roethke</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=529056" data-title="The Far Field de Theodore Roethke" data-description="I

I dream of journeys repeatedly:
Of flying like a bat deep into a narrowing tunnel
Of driving alone, without luggage, out a long peninsula,
The road lined with snow-laden second growth,
A fine dry snow ticking the windshield,
Alternate snow and ..."></div>
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