It seems appropriate to end today's celebration
with one last poem, a short one, "Ars Poetica".
This is a poem about poetry.
This is not by Robert Frost, I'm sorry.
But it is by another man who stood on this stage
in the 1960s.
Archibald MacLeish read where I'm standing today
November 2nd, 1965.
And this is his poem, "Ars Poetica".
"A poem should be palpable and mute as a globed fruit,
dumb as old medallions to the thumb,
silent as the sleeve-worn stone of casement ledges
where the moss has grown.
A poem should be wordless as a flight of birds.
A poem should be motionless in time
as the moon climbs, leaving, as the moon releases
twig by twig the night-entangled trees, leaving, as the moon
behind winter leaves, memory my memory the mind.
A poem should be motionless in time as the moon climbs.
A poem should be equal to, not true.
For all the history of grief an empty doorway and a maple leaf.
For love the leaning grasses and two lights above the sea.
A poem should not mean but be."
Thank you all for being here tonight.
[APPLAUSE]
Please visit us at the Poetry Center.
And I'm sure we'll see each other in other arts
and cultural activities in the weeks and months to come.
[APPLAUSE]