The breaking of things can look like an origination
But then reveal itself, through lights shimmering in fragments 
Of smashed glass, as having occurred too late to have given

Tired now, by candlelight and in the grip
Of much undoing to be done, we strip
   Away at varnish, burn old wills and deeds,

Off to the Gulf and hoping to have the time of our lives,
We found but the signs of fever there: the prostrate horizon,
Unable to drink of the distance, and only appearing at sundown,

The dark gray receding tide uncovers
New reaches of white sand, and underfoot 
Dry bony driftwood moves into the shade

Reflected horribly in the grand piano,
the sky is offered up as your accompanist.
You pick out a melody with one hand,

(Nimmerwahr, 1868) Niemand’s suggested
emendation, as well as his translation based on it, will
plainly not do; among other things, the pure

These cliffs, how glorious, Helen! We have driven 
Along this route together often enough 
Not to have missed this spot before, or given 

The first Tuesday in this warm November
brushes Long Island in a last caress
before winter repels our communities

To sing old songs to little children in
A foreign language made intime thereby;
To pose a riddle, putting one more spin

The silly fish deceived him
As he approached the creel:
He thought the whole thing real