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December 29th, 2014 - we have 234 poets, 8,025 poems and 282,504 comments.
Richard Wilbur - In the Smoking Car

The eyelids meet. He'll catch a little nap. 
The grizzled, crew-cut head drops to his chest. 
It shakes above the briefcase on his lap. 
Close voices breathe, "Poor sweet, he did his best." 

"Poor sweet, poor sweet," the bird-hushed glades repeat, 
Through which in quiet pomp his litter goes, 
Carried by native girls with naked feet. 
A sighing stream concurs in his repose. 

Could he but think, he might recall to mind 
The righteous mutiny or sudden gale 
That beached him here; the dear ones left behind . . . 
So near the ending, he forgets the tale. 

Were he to lift his eyelids now, he might 
Behold his maiden porters, brown and bare. 
But even here he has no appetite. 
It is enough to know that they are there. 

Enough that now a honeyed music swells, 
The gentle, mossed declivities begin, 
And the whole air is full of flower-smells. 
Failure, the longed-for valley, takes him in. 

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In the Smoking Car - Comments and Information

Poet: Richard Wilbur
Poem: In the Smoking Car
Poem of the Day: Feb 23 2014
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