As though an aged person were to wear
Too gay a dress
And walk about the neighborhood
Announcing the hour of her death,
So now, one summer day’s end,
At suppertime, when wheels are still,
The long barn suddenly puts on the traitor, beauty,
And hails us with a dangerous cry,
For: “Look!” she calls to the country,
“Look how fast I dress myself in fire!”
Had we half guessed how long her spacious shadows
Harbored a woman’s vanity
We would be less surprised to see her now
So loved, and so attended, and so feared.
She, in whose airless heart
We burst our veins to fill her full of hay,
Now stands apart.
She will not have us near her. Terribly,
Sweet Christ, how terribly her beauty burns us now!
And yet she has another legacy,
More delicate, to leave us, and more rare.
Who knew her solitude?
Who heard the peace downstairs
While flames ran whispering among the rafters?
Who felt the silence, there,
The long, hushed gallery
Clean and resigned and waiting for the fire?
Look! They have all come back to speak their summary:
Fifty invisible cattle, the past years
Assume their solemn places one by one.
This is the little minute of their destiny.
Here is their meaning found. Here is their end.
Laved in the flame as in a Sacrament
The brilliant walls are holy
In their first-last hour of joy.
Fly from within the barn! Fly from the silence
Of this creature sanctified by fire!
Let no man stay inside to look upon the Lord!
Let no man wait within and see the Holy
One sitting in the presence of disaster
Thinking upon this barn His gentle doom!