Czeslaw Milosz

They are incomprehensible, the things of this earth.

Lure of two breasts and the long hair of a maiden.In rouge, in vermillion, in that color of pondsFound only in the Green Lakes near Wilno.An ungraspable multitudes swarm, come togetherIn the crinkles of tree bark, in the telescope’s eye,For an endless wedding,For the kindling of eyes, for a sweet danceIn the elements of air,…

We wanted to confess our sins but there were no takers.

Was too busy visiting sea after sea.We did not succeed in interesting the animals.Dogs, disappointed, expected an order,A cat, as always immoral, was falling asleep.A person seemingly very closeDid not care to hear of things long past.Conversations with friends over vodka or coffeeOught not be prolonged beyond the first sign of boredom.It would be humiliating…

Veni Seer

Come, Holy Spirit,bending or not bending the grasses,appearing or not above our heads in a tongue of flame,at hay harvest or when they plough in the orchards,or when snow covers crippled firs in the Sierra Nevada.I am only a human being: I need visible signs.I tire easily, building the stairway of abstraction.Many a time I…

‘There where that ray touches the plain

Warsaw stands, open from all sides,A city not very old but quite famous.‘Farther, where strings of rain hang from a little cloud,Under the hills with an acacia groveIs Prague. Above it, a marvelous castleShored against a slope in accordance with old rules.‘What divides this land with white foamIs the Alps. The black means fir forests.Beyond…

I went on a journey in order to acquaint myself with my province, in a two-horse wagon with a lot of fodder and a tin bucket rattling in the back. The bucket was required for the horses to drink from. I traveled through a country of hills and pine groves that gave way to woodlands where swirls of smoke hovered over the roofs of houses, as if they were on fire, for they were chimneyless cabins; I crossed districts of fields and lakes. It was so interesting to be moving, to give the horses their rein, and wait until, in the next valley, a village slowly appeared, or a park with the white spot of a manor house in it. And always we were barked at by a dog, assiduous in its duty. That was the beginning of the century; this is its end. I have been thinking not only of the people who lived there once but also of the generations of dogs accompanying them in their everyday bustle, and one night – I don’t know where it came from – in a pre-dawn sleep, that funny and tender phrase composed itself: a road-side dog.