I see there are some people standing there.
There are lots of seats over this way.
I see several in there, and there are some in front here.
I think I'll add to that little group, Ruskin poem,
and the three poems all called, "The Past," this one, called
"The Two Magnets," which was written in Europe.
"Where broken gods, faded saints,
powerful in antique presence, as old dancers
with straight backs, loftily confident, or old men
in threadbare well-cut coats preside casually
over the venerable conversations of cypress and olive,
there intrudes, like a child interrupting, tugging
at my mind, incongruous, persistent,
the image of young salmon in round
ponds at the hatchery across an ocean, and a continent,
circling with muscular swiftness.
Tints of green, pink, blue, glowing mysteriously through
slate gray under trees, unknown here,
whose names I forget because they were unknown to me
too when I was young.
And there on the western edge of America,
home to me now, and calling me with this image of something
I love yet still unknown, I dream
of cathedrals, of the worn stone of human centuries guarded
by lions with blunted muzzles, or griffins verdant with moss.
Gate posts open in me to effaced avenues.
Part of me lives under nettle grown foundations.
Part of me wanders west and west,
and has reached the edge of the mist
where salmon wait the day when something
shall lift them, and give them to deeper waters."