October Maples, Portland
by Richard Wilbur
The leaves, though little time they have to live,
Were never so unfallen as today,
And seem to yield us through a rustled sieve
The very light from which time fell away.
A showered fire we thought forever lost
Redeems the air. Where friends in passing meet,
They parley in the tongues of Pentecost.
Gold ranks of temples flank the dazzled street.
It is light of maples, and will go;
But not before it washes eye and brain
With such a tincture, such a sanguine glow
As cannot fail to leave a lasting stain.
So Mary’s laundered mantle (in the tale
Which, like all pretty tales, may still be true),
Spread on the rosemary-bush, so drenched the pale
Slight blooms in its irradiated hue,
They could not choose but to return in blue.
Richard Wilbur
March 1, 1921 - ?
- Born in New York City and grew up in North Caldwell, New Jersey
-
Fought in World War II
- Good friends with Robert Frost
- Has received two Pulitzer Prizes for Poetry
- As of 2009 teaches at Amherst College
- Known for his poetry, translations, and children's books
From Wikipedia:
Continuing the tradition of Robert Frost and W. H. Auden, Wilbur's poetry finds illumination in everyday experiences.
A Religious Poet
From
A Critical Survey of His Career
by Dana Gioia
A practicing Episcopalian, Wilbur is America’s preeminent living Christian poet. No other author in this neglected field has written so much over so many years with such consistent distinction.
Wilbur characteristically uses the images, ideas, and ceremonies of the Christian faith to provide perspective on the secular world.
From "October Maples"
Wilbur's best poems–like those of his mentor, Frost–often present a double structure.
Poem Structure
Rhyme
The leaves, though little time they have to live, A
Were never so unfallen as today, B
And seem to yield us through a rustled sieve A
The very light from which time fell away. B
Rhythm
iambic pentameter
Poem Analysis
The leaves, though little time they have to live,
Were never so unfallen as today,
And seem to yield us through a rustled sieve
The very light from which time fell away.
A showered fire we thought forever lost
Redeems the air. Where friends in passing meet,
They parley in the tongues of Pentecost.
Gold ranks of temples flank the dazzled street.
It is a light of maples, and will go;
But not before it washes eye and brain
With such a tincture, such a sanguine glow
As cannot fail to leave a lasting stain.
So Mary’s laundered mantle (in the tale
Which, like all pretty tales, may still be true),
Spread on the rosemary-bush, so drenched the pale
Slight blooms in its irradiated hue,
They could not choose but to return in blue.