Against my knee the impassive wooden boy
Laments in tenderest syllables small faith;
He has not heart nor incalculable breath
Of life. He is, I know it best, a toy
Vacant of all but the life which grows greater with
His voice I speak, I speak through rigid lips.
Upon the air, his radiance of being slips
Kindly and plaintive. My death will be his death
Since he who speaks is my own voice’s sound,
All humors, passions, small affairs of trade
I am the tree, and he is the tree’s shade,
So intricately involved are we with the ground.
But now on air he leans and carries on
The conversation with my voice relayed, we are
One voice, stern questioner and sorry answerer
To coffee drinkers listening till dawn.
Problems unsolved, lessons unlearned, love denied,
What trivial matters are these that walk on space,
Little man hatted and gloved, who has no face,
Who begs forgiveness for his bills unpaid,
I am he, since my voice is also his,
Therefore is he his master, against whom he leans.
It is fortunate for us that the wide air screens
From sight us both, the wooden one who is
All luminous man, all heart and evening dress,
And me, the flesh who turns to quieter wood
Than he, the brave illusion of flesh and blood;
Concealment is fortunate for both of us.
No one suspects what change is come on me,
The act is good. So be it. The illusion carries.
But there is an illusion greater than this
Where draped in the velvet void, how distantly,
I am a wooden boy against the imponderable
Knee of what unseen man, with foreground of skies
I can conjecture his presence by old surmise,
The question of thunder, reply of a bell in the gale,
The question of thunder, reply of a bird in the storm,
Reply of the bell or the bird in the rain
So timorous, you listen to hear it come again,
So still, so still, and louder than alarm.
It is his voice that speaks through the smaller man,
His voice in doubtful answer to questioning,
He is himself and me, the wooden thing,
Through moveless lips he answers as he can,
And even in his answer falling lighter than leaves,
I am the delicate spirit who on the air does walk
Woven of sinew and heart from sorrowful talk,
A hesitant answer of what the heart believes,
And even in his answer have I escaped,
I am the insubstantial heart beat which goes
From him, in whom are all the leaves of darkness;
Who grows more silent than the thing he shaped.
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