Three poems and we'll be done.
This first poem is called "The Waters."
"If you stare out over the waters on a bright day when
the wind is down and the waters move on to groom themselves,
turning their beautiful faces a little
to guess how the light looks on them this way, and that.
If you hear them, contented as they seem to be,
and quiet, so that they seethe, like a slow fire,
and their long syllable is not broken into music.
And if you should carry them with you
like the memory of impossible errands
and not know what you carry, nor how,
so that you feel inelevably mute, as if from birth, then
you will be apt for speech, for books,
and you'll be glib though it torment you,
and you'll rise to the sacraments of memory
and lie down unable to forget what you can't name,
and the wine in your glass will be ink."