John Ashbery cuenta que este es su poema más antiguo, de los que guardó de su juventud poética, en la época universitaria. ¡Si mi último poema fuera uno como este, moriría como buena servidora de la poesía! Pero la dama tiene a sus mozos preferidos y da a su capricho los dones con que quiere que le sirvan.
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SOME TREES
These are amazing: each
Joining a neighbor, as though speech
Were a still performance.
Arranging by chance
To meet as far this morning
From the world as agreeing
With it, you and I
Are suddenly what the trees try
To tell us we are:
That their merely being there
Means something; that soon
We may touch, love, explain.
And glad not to have invented
Such comeliness, we are surrounded:
A silence already filled with noises,
A canvas on which emerges
A chorus of smiles, a winter morning.
Placed in a puzzling light, and moving,
Our days put on such reticence
These accents seem their own defense.
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