You see it in the Ode,
The prancing toddler at the park,
In flaxen hair caught floating in the sun,
In chattering oak-leaves stained to rusty brown,
In festivals arising, town by town:
Beer and drink, corrupting the affair,
Shouts that rise on prickly air.
Some strangeness it is that needs to pull
A stranger beauty round itself, like a shawl,
And warm these moments already touched
With chill impermanence for all.
It is a singular note, not questioning
Some injustice or riddle,
Nor remembering born again,
Sounding sweet atop the orchestra
Of all life’s fadings;
But round and round distraction turns
Breathlessly to this: a most reserved bliss,
Notes through the din,
A calling or an answer, all in one.