To Dante

Yours is Time, in its morning and its evening —
are you not its revelation of genius?
You soared, and in your hands the letters
became meanings — how far from the dust of the arena!
When thought gazes into their air
it asks: "O unseen, where is the hidden?
And O death, where is the droning of extinction
over your lairs, and the chanting of the dirge?"

Yours is Time — so seize the loftiness of the summits;
and how many a prophet upon the lofty summits
sings your song: from Homer,
down the ages, to Valéry!
Then make ready the path for me — perhaps heaven
will take pity on me before the passing...
that I may fashion, like you, a marvel
of poetry that rhyme itself falls short of.

July 15, 1946