Brahms
It must be that my early friendship with defeat
Has given me affection for the month of August.
The potato fields belong to early night.
So many times as a boy I sat in the dirt
Among dry cornstalks that gave assurances
Every hour that Francis has his ear to the night.
The gifts that mariners all receive at the end—
Memories of gold and a grave in the sand.
The shadow of a friend's hand gives us
Promises similar to those we received from
The light under the door as our mother came near.
Each of us is a Jacob weeping for Joseph.
We are the sparrow that flies through the warrior's
Hall and back out into the falling snow.
I don't know why these images should please me
So much; an angel said: "In the last moment before night
Brahms will show you how loyal the notes are.
Robert Bly
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