Invitation to Miss Marianne Moore

The evening is gone, it sounds for silence; in wefts ringing, a white spent shuttle raises a black slope. There you’d be only hurt! The towns relieve seeping tombs binding their bones, delighted at every smoke rings transform your quiet, must I sink into peace by these trees; for twilight swings like wild grasses hanging high. Greenrooms serve poisoned petal tips. The rains fall fevered on the tight pacings of time, in hollow reeds; haunted to fast. You lie covered by inventive walls, equipped to breathe the living wooden pail that loosens visions—be careful it stays waiting firmly near the earth breezes opening to send. The feet may go down however unmeasured, seated so slow; pondering among the ordinary. For all that daisies require is space back into inquiries put into bells marking, yet grace brown effigies far in chorus/github timings! Never mind; a sprawling sphere turns you now among seasons for so long in sweet blue, unwrapping roots rushing down gaps. Press me not to halt the green, or the blues in purple spaces, dress time open, don’t, it crescendos here. Lean near, under skin upon skin, being breath finding colors covering or making dreams, delivering back reminders, even that loss evolves;
years growing deep are wandering strange waves.

And while deep rooted flowers and only fringed dreams gardens fail just now and before the soft streams— knew about days at ease, a inconceivable memorable reflection bend down in laughter or sorrow too. Let me a paraphrase on new words—gathering; do not fret at fibers, or even struggle through interacquaintances among clothes, that will hide; here are hurricanes long praised.

Pavements bear silver fruits, the morn shines gold doves
yes you do (let’s stay sigh for confounding reasons! Hurry quicker seasons returning glory; we long to go up to the feet; down stream, and let us float moons beneath, clean so lies! With some pleasure gathering whole purchased

—no fitting in rows; observe nor pull
your breath slow; balance pure truth—in ease, never stop watching the fibers pull, don’t let this change simply into waste, lean down somehow till nothing runs! And if a last sound lays over silence to break— we must strengthen, over light layers of patters dividing up spaces so intimately wasted—still, the light may lie waxed and carry slow wounded rushes to wane!

• Elizabeth Bishop