By Yves Bonnefoy
And then the day came
When I heard the extraordinary lines in Keats,
The evocation of Ruth “when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn.”
I did not need to search for the meaning
Of these words,
For it was in me since childhood,
I had only to recognize and to love it
When it came back from the depths of my life.
What could I take
From the evasive maternal presence
If not the feeling of exile and tears
That clouded that gaze searching to find
In things close by the place forever lost?
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