Transit

Transit

A woman I have never seen before
Steps from the darkness of her town-house door
At just that crux of time when she is made
So beautiful that she or time must fade.

What use to claim that as she tugs her gloves
A phantom heraldry of all the loves
Blares from the lintel? That the staggered sun
Forgets, in his confusion, how to run?

Still, nothing changes as her perfect feet
Click down the walk that issues in the street,
Leaving the stations of her body there
As a whip maps the countries of the air.


from Collected Poems 1943-2004 (Waywiser, 2005), copyright © Richard Wilbur 2005, used by permission of the author and the publisher

Where next?

Recordings

Buy album £0.00

1A Barred Owl

2For C.

3Zea

4At Moorditch

5Mayflies

6Fabrications

7Icons

8Crows' Nests

9Bone Key

10A Cry from Childhood

11A Wall in the Woods: Cummington

12Elsewhere

13This Pleasing Anxious Being

14The Ride

15Lying

16The Catch

17Song

18Trolling for Blues

19Transit

20A Finished Man

21Hamlen Brook

22A Storm in April

23The Writer

24To The Etruscan Poets

25The Eye

26Piccola Commedia

27The Mind-Reader

Books by Richard Wilbur