The other poem is about a specific painting.
It's called "The Composition."
This is in my new book just out called Evening Train.
The painting is a Dutch 17th century painting
by Emmanuel de Witte.
Most of his paintings are church interiors, or sometimes
church exteriors, in which there are figures,
but the figures are very unimportant factors
in the composition.
This one is a domestic interior, and it's
in the museum in Montreal.
There's another version of it in Holland,
which I don't remember having seen,
and I haven't had the opportunity
to compare them and see if there are differences between them.
"The Composition."
"Two rooms away, seen through the open door,
the servant-maid raises her head to listen.
Times the strokes of her broom to the music's
crisp, golden wavelets.
Autumn sun and shadows well-defined overlay
the floortiles--
antiphonal transverse strips over squares
of white and black.
Filtered through little panes in long and lofty windows,
the light hints at green in its morning pallor.
But red, red is the lord of color here--
the draperies, bedside carpet, ceiling-beams,
elaborate hanging lamp, a chair.
All these and more are a glowing Indian red--
and red above all, with its canopy,
valance, ample curtains the big four-poster.
Up and dressed, the young wife, white cap and dimly auburn
skirts, red jacket basqued with ermine tips,
is playing the harpsichord, beginning the day with delight,
while snug still in the bed's half-dark
reclines the young husband, leaning his head
on one hand intently, blissfully, watching
and listening.
A human scene-- apex of civilized joy,
attained in Holland, the autumn of 1660,
never surpassed, probably never to be matched.
But if the same scene had been painted differently,
not only with other colors but from another distance,
perspectives differently disposed, more curves, less
play of severe rectangles--
if it had been a composition that lacked this austere
counterpoint of forms which evoke,
in brave resplendent red, the very twang and trill and wiry
ground bass of the notes ringing forth under her fingers,
if it had been reduced to anecdote,
we'd never have known that once, in eternity, this peaceful joy
had blessed an autumnal morning."
I should point out since this is a new book just out--
and I believe they've got copies here now--
that at the bottom of page 24, there is an error.
It's a missing dash after the word "rectangles."
It's the very last line of that page.
The poem runs onto page 25, and the last line of page 24
is missing that dash.
These things do happen, however much you proofread
and other people proofread.
It's so maddening.