The plainness of plain things is savagery,
As: the last plainness of a man who has fought
Against illusion and was, in a great grinding
Of growling teeth, and falls at night, snuffed out
By these obese opiates of sleep. Plain men in plain towns
Are not precise about the appeasement they need.
They only know a savage assuagement cries
With a savage voice; and in that cry they hear
Themselves transposed, muted and comforted
In a savage and subtle and simple harmony,
A matching and mating of surprised accords,
A responding to a diviner opposite.
So lewd spring comes from winter's chastity.
So, after summer, in the autumn air,
Comes the cold volume of forgotten ghosts,
But soothingly, with pleasant instruments,
So that this cold, a children's tale of ice,
Seems like a sheen of heat romanticized.
The ephebe is solitary in his walk.
He skips the journalism of subjects, seeks out
The perquisites of sanctity, enjoys
A strong mind in a weak neighborhood and is
A serious man without the serious,
Inactive in his singular respect.
He is neither priest or proctor at low eve,
Under the birds, among the perilous owls,
In the big X of the returning primitive.
It is a fresh spiritual that he defines,
A coldness in a long, too-constant warmth,
A thing on the side of a house, not deep in a cloud,
A difficulty that we predicate:
The difficulty of the visible
To the nations of the clear invisible,
The actual landscape with its actual horns
Of baker and butcher blowing, as if to hear,
Hear hard, gets at an essential integrity.