And this poem is called "Civilization
and its Discontents."
And it has a chilling little epigraph
that I found in that book Freud wrote.
"Integration in, or adaptation to, a human community
appears as a scarcely avoidable condition which
must be fulfilled before our aim of happiness can be achieved.
If it could be done without that condition,
it would perhaps be preferable."
This is after a lifetime of thought.
"Civilization and Its Discontents"
How much of the great poetry of solitude in the woods
is one long cadenza on the sadness of civilization.
And how much thought on beaches, between drowsing and sleep,
along the borders, between one place and another,
as if such poise were home to us.
On the far side of these woods, stew, gelatinous
from cracked lamb shanks, is being labeled,
ladled into bowls, and a family scuffs its chairs
close to an inherited table.
Maybe there's wine, maybe not.
We don't know because our thoughts
are with the great sad soul in the woods again.
We suppose that even now some poignant speck of litter,
born by the river of psychic murmur,
has been grafted by that brooding soul
to a beloved piece of music.
And that from the general plaint, a shape
is about to be made.
Though maybe not.
We can't see into the soul the way we can into that cottage
where now they're done with food until next meal.
Here's what I think.
The soul in the woods is not alone.
All he came there to leave behind
is in him, like a garrison in a conquered city.
When he goes back to it, and goes gratefully because it's
nearly time for dinner, he will be entering himself.
Though when he faced the woods from the road,
that's what he thought then, too.