by John Ashbery
     Orpheus liked the glad personal quality
     Of the things beneath the sky. Of course， Eurydice was a part
     Of this. Then one day， everything changed. He rends
     Rocks into fissures with lament. Gullies， hummocks
     Can't withstand it. The sky shudders from one horizon
     To the other， almost ready to give up wholeness.
     Then Apollo quietly told him： "Leave it all on earth.
     Your lute， what point？ Why pick at a dull pavan few care to
     Follow， except a few birds of dusty feather，
     Not vivid performances of the past." But why not？
     All other things must change too.
     The seasons are no longer what they once were，
     But it is the nature of things to be seen only once，
     As they happen along， bumping into other things， getting along
     Somehow. That's where Orpheus made his mistake.
     Of course Eurydice vanished into the shade；
     She would have even if he hadn't turned around.
     No use standing there like a gray stone toga as the whole wheel
     Of recorded history flashes past， struck dumb， unable to
     utter an intelligent
     Comment on the most thought-provoking element in its train.
     Only love stays on the brain， and something these people，
     These other ones， call life. Singing accurately
     So that the notes mount straight up out of the well of
     Dim noon and rival the tiny， sparkling yellow flowers
     Growing around the brink of the quarry， encapsulizes
     The different weights of the things.
     But it isn't enough
     To just go on singing. Orpheus realized this
     And didn't mind so much about his reward being in heaven
     After the Bacchantes had torn him apart， driven
     Half out of their minds by his music， what it was doing to them.
     Some say it was for his treatment of Eurydice.
     But probably the music had more to do with it， and
     The way music passes， emblematic
     Of life and how you cannot isolate a note of it
     And say it is good or bad. You must
     Wait till it's over. "The end crowns all，"
     Meaning also that the "tableau"
     Is wrong. For although memories， of a season， for example，
     Melt into a single snapshot， one cannot guard， treasure
     That stalled moment. It too is flowing， fleeting；
     It is a picture of flowing， scenery， though living， mortal，
     Over which an abstract action is laid out in blunt，
     Harsh strokes. And to ask more than this
     Is to become the tossing reeds of that slow，
     Powerful stream， the trailing grasses
     Playfully tugged at， but to participate in the action
     No more than this. Then in the lowering gentian sky
     Electric twitches are faintly apparent first， then burst forth
     Into a shower of fixed， cream-colored flares. The horses
     Have each seen a share of the truth， though each thinks，
     "I'm a maverick. Nothing of this is happening to me，
     Though I can understand the language of birds， and
     The itinerary of the lights caught in the storm is
     fully apparent to me.
     Their jousting ends in music much
     As trees move more easily in the wind after a summer storm
     And is happening in lacy shadows of shore-trees， now，
     day after day."
     But how late to be regretting all this， even
     Bearing in mind that regrets are always late， too late！
     To which Orpheus， a bluish cloud with white contours，
     Replies that these are of course not regrets at all，
     Merely a careful， scholarly setting down of
     Unquestioned facts， a record of pebbles along the way.
     And no matter how all this disappeared，
     Or got where it was going， it is no longer
     Material for a poem. Its subject
     Matters too much， and not enough， standing there helplessly
     While the poem streaked by， its tail afire， a bad
     Comet screaming hate and disaster， but so turned inward
     That the meaning， good or other， can never
     Become known. The singer thinks
     Constructively， builds up his chant in progressive stages
     Like a skyscraper， but at the last minute turns away.
     The song is engulfed in an instant in blackness
     Which must in turn flood the whole continent
     With blackness， for it cannot see. The singer
     Must then pass out of sight， not even relieved
     Of the evil burthen of the words. Stellification
     Is for the few， and comes about much later
     When all record of these people and their lives
     Has disappeared into libraries， onto microfilm.
     A few are still interested in them. "But what about
     So-and-so？" is still asked on occasion. But they lie
     Frozen and out of touch until an arbitrary chorus
     Speaks of a totally different incident with a similar name
     In whose tale are hidden syllables
     Of what happened so long before that
     In some small town， one different summer.