Tuesday, November 6, 2012


        And then turning where the last pale
        Lighthouse, like a Samson blinded, stands
        And turns its huge charred orbit on the sands
        I think of you - indeed mostly of you,
        In whom a writer would only name and lose
        The dented boy's lip and the close
        Archer's shoulders; but here to rediscover
        By tides and faults of weather, by the rain
        Which washes everything, the critic and the lover.

Selected Poems
  [fourth verse]
Peter Porter, editor
Faber and Faber, Ltd, 2006©


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