Бледный огонь
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ТИНТАРРОН, драгоценное стекло, окрашенное в темно-синий цвет, изготовляемое в Бокае, средневековом городке в земблянских горах, 149 ; см. также «Сударг» .

ТУРГУС ТРЕТИЙ, прозванный Чванным, дед К., умер в 1900 г. в возрасте семидесяти пяти лет, после долгого и скучного царствования; с нахлобученной на голову сеткой для губки вместо фуражки и одинокой медалью на охотничьей куртке, он любил кататься на велосипеде по парку; толстый и лысый, с носом как налитая соком слива, с воинственными усами, топорщившимися от старомодной страсти, в халате из зеленого шелка и с факелом в поднятой руке, он каждую ночь, в течение короткого периода времени в середине восьмидесятых годов, встречался со своей закутанной в капюшон любовницей, Ирис Ахт (q. v.), на полпути между дворцом и театром, в тайном проходе, которому впоследствии предстояло быть вновь открытым его внуком, 130 .

УРАН ПОСЛЕДНИЙ, император Зембли, царствовал в 1798–1799 гг.; невероятно блестящий, расточительный и жестокий монарх, чья свистящая плеть заставила Земблю вертеться как радужный волчок; убит однажды ночью группой объединившихся фаворитов его сестры, 681 .

ФАЛЬКБЕРГ, розовый конус, 71 ; в снежной шапке, 149 .

ФЛЁР, графиня де Файлер, элегантная фрейлина, 71 , 80 , 433 .

ФЛЭТМАН, Томас, 1637–1688 гг., английский поэт, ученый и миниатюрист, неизвестный старому мошеннику, 894 .

ХОДЫНСКИЙ, русский авантюрист, ум. в 1800 г., известный также как Ходына, 681 ; проживал в Зембле в 1778–1800 гг.; автор знаменитой имитации и любовник нринцессы (впоследствии королевы) Яруги (q. v.), матери Игоря II, бабки Тургуса (q. v.).

ЧАРЛЬЗ II, Карл-Ксаверий-Всеслав, последний король Зембли, прозванный Возлюбленным, р. 1915 г., правил в 1936–1958 гг.; его герб, 1 ; его ученые занятия и его царствование, 12 ; страшная судьба его предшественников, 62 ; его сторонники, 70 ; родители, 71 ; опочивальня, 80 ; побег из дворца, 130 ; и через горы, 149 ; вспоминается его обручение с Дизой, 275 ; путешествие (м. пр.) через Париж, 286 ; и через Швейцарию, 408 ; посещение виллы «Диза», 433 ; вспоминается ночь в горах, 597 , 662 ; его русская кровь и регалии (q. v., непременно), 681 ; его прибытие в США, 691 ; украдено письмо к Дизе, 741 ; и процитировано, 768 ; обсуждается его портрет, 894 ; его присутствие в библиотеке, 949 , едва не разоблачен, 991 ; Solus Rex, 1000 . См. также «Кинбот» .

ШАЛЬКСБОР, барон Харфар, известный под именем Кюрди Буф, р. 1921 г., светский человек и земблянский патриот, 433 .

ШЕЙД, Джон Фрэнсис, поэт и ученый, 1898–1959 гг.; его работа над «Бледным огнем» и дружба с К., Предисловие ; его внешность, манеры, привычки и пр., ibid.; его первая битва со смертью в воображении К. и начало работы над поэмой, пока К. играл в шахматы в студенческом клубе, 1 ; его блуждания с К. на закате, 12 ; его смутное предчувствие о Г., 17 ; его дом, наблюдаемый К., представленный освещенными окнами, 47 ; начало его работы над поэмой, завершение Песни второй и около половины третьей, и совершенные К. три посещения в соответствующие моменты, ibid.; его родители, Сэмюель Шейд и Каролина Лукин, 71 ; влияние К., замеченное в варианте, 79 ; Мод Шейд, сестра отца Ш., 86 ; К. показана заводная игрушка memento mori Ш., 143 ; К. об обморочных припадках Ш., 162 ; Ш. начинает Песнь вторую, 167 ; Ш. о критиках, Шекспире, образовании и т. д., 172 ; К., наблюдающий за гостями Ш., прибывающими в его и Ш. день рождения, и Ш. пишет Песнь вторую, 181 ; вспоминаются его тревоги о дочери, 230 ; его деликатность или осторожность, 231 ; его преувеличенный интерес к местной фауне и флоре, 238 ; 270 ; осложнения в браке К. по сравнению с ясностью в браке Ш., 275 ; К. привлекает внимание Ш. к пастельному мазку, перечеркнувшему закатное небо, 286 ; его страх, что Ш. может уехать раньше, чем кончит их общее произведение, 287 ; его тщетное ожидание Ш. 15 июня, 334 ; его прогулка с Ш. по полям старика Хенилера и воспроизведение им экспедиций дочери Ш. в заколдованный амбар, 347 ; произношение Ш., 367 ; книга Ш. о Попе, 384 ; его недоброе чувство к Питеру Провосту, 385 ; его работа над строками 406–416, синхронизированная с деятельностью Г. в Швейцарии, 408 ; опять его осторожность или деликатность, 417 ; возможность, что он, двадцать шесть лет назад, мельком видел виллу «Диза» и маленькую герцогиню Больстонскую с ее английской гувернанткой, 433 ; кажущееся приятие им материала о Дизе и обещание К. раскрыть сущность правды, ibid.; взгляды Ш. на предрассудок, 470 ; взгляды К. на самоубийство, 493 ; взгляды Ш. и К. на грех и веру, 549 ; странности гостеприимства Ш. и его радость по поводу отсутствия мяса в моей диете, 579 ; слухи, что он интересуется одной студенткой, ibid.; его отрицание, что начальник станции помешан, 629 ; его сердечный припадок, синхронизированный с эффектным прибытием К. в США, 691 ; упоминание о Ш. в письме к Дизе от К., 768 ; его последняя прогулка с Ш. и его радость при известии, что Ш. усердно работает над темой «горы», — прискорбное недоразумение, 802 ; его игры в гольф с Ш., 819 ; его готовность навести справки для Ш., 887 ; Ш. защищает короля Зембли, 894 ; он и К. смеются над вздором в учебнике, составленном профессором К., психиатром и литературным экспертом (!), 929 ; он начинает последнюю пачку карточек, 949 ; он открывает К., что закончил свой труд, 991 , его смерть от пули, предназначавшейся другому, 1000 .

ШЕЙД, Сибилла, жена Ш., passim.

ШЕЙД, Хэйзель, дочь Ш., 1934–1957 гг.; заслуживает глубокое уважение за то, что предпочла красоту смерти уродству жизни; домашнее привидение, 230 ; заколдованный амбар, 347 .

ЭМБЛА, старый городок с деревянной церковью, окруженный торфяными болотами, в самой печальной, самой одинокой, самой северной точке туманного полуострова, 149 , 433 .

ЭМБЛЕМА, по-земблянски означает «цветущая», красивый залив с синеватыми и черными, любопытно полосатыми скалами и роскошной порослью вереска на пологих склонах, в самой южной части Западной Зембли, 433 .

ЯРУГА, королева, царствовала в 1799–1800 гг., сестра Урана (q. v.); утонула в проруби вместе со своим русским любовником во время традиционных новогодних празднеств, 681 .

ЯЧЕЙКА яшмы, Зембля, далекая северная страна.

ПРИЛОЖЕНИЕ

Pale Fire

(A Poem in Four Cantos)

Canto One

001  I was the shadow of the waxwing slain By the false azure in the windowpane; I was the smudge of ashen fluff — and I Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky. And from the inside, too, I'd duplicate Myself, my lamp, an apple on a plate: Uncurtaining the night, I'd let dark glass Hang all the furniture above the grass, And how delightful when a fall of snow 010  Covered my glimpse of lawn and reached up so As to make chair and bed exactly stand Upon that snow, out in that crystal land! Retake the falling snow: each drifting flake Shapeless and slow, unsteady and opaque, A dull dark white against the day's pale white And abstract larches in the neutral light. And then the gradual and dual blue As night unites the viewer and the view, And in the morning, diamonds of frost 020  Express amazement: Whose spurred feet have crossed From left to right the blank page of the road? Reading from left to right in winter's code: A dot, an arrow pointing back; repeat: Dot, arrow pointing back… A pheasant's feet! Torquated beauty, sublimated grouse, Finding your China right behind my house. Was he in Sherlock Holmes, the fellow whose Tracks pointed back when he reversed his shoes? All colors made me happy: even gray. 030  My eyes were such that literally they Took photographs. Whenever I'd permit, Or, with a silent shiver, order it, Whatever in my field of vision dwelt — An indoor scene, hickory leaves, the svelte Stilettos of a frozen stillicide — Was printed on my eyelids' nether side Where it would tarry for an hour or two, And while this lasted all I had to do Was close my eyes to reproduce the leaves, 040  Or indoor scene, or trophies of the eaves. I cannot understand why from the lake I could make out our front porch when I'd take Lake Road to school, whilst now, although no tree Has intervened, I look but fail to see Even the roof. Maybe some quirk in space Has caused a fold or furrow to displace The fragile vista, the frame house between Goldsworth and Wordsmith on its square of green. I had a favorite young shagbark there 050  With ample dark jade leaves and a black, spare, Vermiculated trunk. The setting sun Bronzed the black bark, around which, like undone Garlands, the shadows of the foliage fell. It is now stout and rough; it has done well. White butterflies turn lavender as they Pass through its shade where gently seems to sway The phantom of my little daughter's swing. The house itself is much the same. One wing We've had revamped. There's a solarium. There's 060  A picture window flanked with fancy chairs. TV's huge paperclip now shines instead Of the stiff vane so often visited By the na"ive, the gauzy mockingbird Retelling all the programs that she had heard; Switching from chippo-chippo to a clear To-wee, to-wee; then rasping out: come here, Come here, come herrr'; flirting her tail aloft, Or gracefully indulging in a soft Upward hop-flop, and instantly (to-wee!) 070  Returning to her perch — the new TV. I was an infant when my parents died. They both were ornithologists. I've tried So often to evoke them that today I have a thousand parents. Sadly they Dissolve in their own virtues and recede, But certain words, chance words I hear or read, Such as «bad heart» always to him refer, And «cancer of the pancreas» to her. A preterist: one who collects cold nests. 080  Here was my bedroom, now reserved for guests. Here, tucked away by the Canadian maid, I listened to the buzz downstairs and prayed For everybody to be always well, Uncles and aunts, the maid, her niece Ad'ele, Who'd seen the Pope, people in books, and God. I was brought up by dear bizarre Aunt Maud, A poet and a painter with a taste For realistic objects interlaced With grotesque growths and images of doom. 090  She lived to hear the next babe cry. Her room We've kept intact. Its trivia create A still life in her style: the paperweight Of convex glass enclosing a lagoon, The verse book open at the Index (Moon, Moonrise, Moor, Moral), the forlorn guitar, The human skull; and from the local Star A curio: Red Sox Beat Yanks 5–4 On Chapman's Homer, thumb tacked to the door. My God died young. Theolatry I found 100  Degrading, and its premises, unsound. No free man needs a God; but was I free? How fully I felt nature glued to me And how my childish palate loved the taste Half-fish, half-honey, of that golden paste! My picture book was at an early age The painted parchment papering our cage: Mauve rings around the moon; blood-orange sun Twinned Iris; and that rare phenomenon The iridule — when beautiful and strange, 110  In a bright sky above a mountain range One opal cloudlet in an oval form Reflects the rainbow of a thunderstorm Which in a distant valley has been staged — For we are most artistically caged. And there's the wall of sound: the nightly wall Raised by a trillion crickets in the fall. Impenetrable! Halfway up the hill I'd pause in thrall of their delirious trill. That's Dr. Sutton's light. That's the Great Bear. 120  A thousand years ago five minutes were Equal to forty ounces of fine sand. Outstare the stars. Infinite foretime and Infinite aftertime: above your head They close like giant wings, and you are dead. The regular vulgarian, I daresay, Is happier: he sees the Milky Way Only when making water. Then as now I walked at my own risk: whipped by the bough, Tripped by the stump. Asthmatic, lame and fat, 130  I never bounced a ball or swung a bat. I was the shadow of the waxwing slain By feigned remoteness in the windowpane. I had a brain, five senses (one unique), But otherwise I was a cloutish freak. In sleeping dreams I played with other chaps But really envied nothing — save perhaps The miracle of a lemniscate left Upon wet sand by nonchalantly deft Bicycle tires. A thread of subtle pain, 140  Tugged at by playful death, released again, But always present, ran through me. One day, When I'd just turned eleven, as I lay Prone on the floor and watched a clockwork toy — A tin wheelbarrow pushed by a tin boy — Bypass chair legs and stray beneath the bed, There was a sudden sunburst in my head. And then black night. That blackness was sublime. I felt distributed through space and time: One foot upon a mountaintop, one hand 150  Under the pebbles of a panting strand, One ear in Italy, one eye in Spain, In caves, my blood, and in the stars, my brain. There were dull throbs in my Triassic; green Optical spots in Upper Pleistocene, An icy shiver down my Age of Stone, And all tomorrows in my funnybone. During one winter every afternoon I'd sink into that momentary swoon. And then it ceased. Its memory grew dim. 160  My health improved. I even learned to swim. But like some little lad forced by a wench With his pure tongue her abject thirst to quench, I was corrupted, terrified, allured, And though old doctor Colt pronounced me cured Of what, he said, were mainly growing pains, The wonder lingers and the shame remains.

Canto Two

There was a time in my demented youth When somehow I suspected that the truth About survival after death was known 170  To every human being: I alone Knew nothing, and a great conspiracy Of books and people hid the truth from me. There was the day when I began to doubt Man's sanity: How could he live without Knowing for sure what dawn, what death, what doom Awaited consciousness beyond the tomb? And finally there was the sleepless night When I decided to explore and fight The foul, the inadmissible abyss, 180  Devoting all my twisted life to this One task. Today I'm sixty-one. Waxwings Are berry-pecking. A cicada sings. The little scissors I am holding are A dazzling synthesis of sun and star. I stand before the window and I pare My fingernails and vaguely am aware Of certain flinching likenesses: the thumb, Our grocer's son; the index, lean and glum College astronomer Starover Blue; 190  The middle fellow, a tall priest I knew; The feminine fourth finger, an old flirt; And little pinky clinging to her skirt. And I make mouths as I snip off the thin Strips of what Aunt Maud used to call «scarf-skin.» Maud Shade was eighty when a sudden hush Fell on her life. We saw the angry flush And torsion of paralysis assail Her noble cheek. We moved her to Pinedale, Famed for its sanitarium. There she'd sit 200  In the glassed sun and watch the fly that lit Upon her dress and then upon her wrist. Her mind kept fading in the growing mist. She still could speak. She paused, then groped, and found What seemed at first a serviceable sound, But from adjacent cells impostors took The place of words she needed, and her look Spelt imploration as she sought in vain To reason with the monsters in her brain. What moment in the gradual decay 210  Does resurrection choose? What year? What day? Who has the stopwatch? Who rewinds the tape? Are some less lucky, or do all escape? A syllogism: other men die; but I Am not another; therefore I'll not die. Space is a swarming in the eyes; and time, A singing in the ears. In this hive I'm Locked up. Yet, if prior to life we had Been able to imagine life, what mad, Impossible, unutterably weird, 220  Wonderful nonsense it might have appeared! So why join in the vulgar laughter? Why Scorn a hereafter none can verify: The Turk's delight, the future lyres, the talks With Socrates and Proust in cypress walks, The seraph with his six flamingo wings, And Flemish hells with porcupines and things? It isn't that we dream too wild a dream: The trouble is we do not make it seem Sufficiently unlikely; for the most 230  We can think up is a domestic ghost. How ludicrous these efforts to translate Into one's private tongue a public fate! Instead of poetry divinely terse, Disjointed notes, Insomnia's mean verse! Life is a message scribbled in the dark. Anonymous. Espied on a pine's bark, As we were walking home the day she died, An empty emerald case, squat and frog-eyed, Hugging the trunk; and its companion piece, 240  A gum-logged ant. That Englishman in Nice, A proud and happy linguist: je nourris Les pauvres cigales — meaning that he Fed the poor sea gulls! Lafontaine was wrong: Dead is the mandible, alive the song. And so I pare my nails, and muse, and hear Your steps upstairs, and all is right, my dear. Sybil, throughout our high-school days I knew Your loveliness, but fell in love with you During an outing of the senior class 250  To New Wye Falls. We luncheoned on damp grass. Our teacher of geology discussed The cataract. Its roar and rainbow dust Made the tame park romantic. I reclined In April's haze immediately behind Your slender back and watched your neat small head Bend to one side. One palm with fingers spread, Between a star of trillium and a stone, Pressed on the turf. A little phalange bone Kept twitching. Then you turned and offered me 260  A thimbleful of bright metallic tea. Your profile has not changed. The glistening teeth Biting the careful lip; the shade beneath The eye from the long lashes; the peach down Rimming the cheekbone; the dark silky brown Of hair brushed up from temple and from nape; The very naked neck; the Persian shape Of nose and eyebrow, you have kept it all — And on still nights we hear the waterfall. Come and be worshiped, come and be caressed, 270  My dark Vanessa, crimson-barred, my blest My Admirable butterfly! Explain How could you, in the gloam of Lilac Lane, Have let uncouth, hysterical John Shade Blubber your face, and ear, and shoulder blade? We have been married forty years. At least Four thousand times your pillow has been creased By our two heads. Four hundred thousand times The tall clock with the hoarse Westminster chimes Has marked our common hour. How many more 280  Free calendars shall grace the kitchen door? I love you when you're standing on the lawn Peering at something in a tree: «It's gone. It was so small. It might come back» (all this Voiced in a whisper softer than a kiss). I love you when you call me to admire A jet's pink trail above the sunset fire. I love you when you're humming as you pack A suitcase or the farcical car sack With round-trip zipper. And I love you most 290  When with a pensive nod you greet her ghost And hold her first toy on your palm, or look At a postcard from her, found in a book. She might have been you, me, or some quaint blend: Nature chose me so as to wrench and rend Your heart and mine. At first we'd smile and say: «All little girls are plump» or «Jim McVey (The family oculist) will cure that slight Squint in not time.» And later: «She'll be quite Pretty, you know»; and trying to assuage 300  The swelling torment: «That's the awkward age.» «She should take riding lessons,» you would say (Your eyes and mine not meeting). «She should play Tennis, or badminton. Less starch, more fruit! She may not be a beauty, but she's cute.» It was no use, no use. The prizes won In French and history, no doubt, were fun; At Christmas parties games were rough, no doubt, And one shy little guest might be left out; But let's be fair: while children of her age 310  Were cast as elves and fairies on the stage That she'd helped paint for the school pantomime, My gentle girl appeared as Mother Time, A bent charwoman with a slop pail and broom, And like a fool I sobbed in the men's room. Another winter was scrape-scooped away. The Toothwort White haunted our woods in May. Summer was power-mowed, and autumn, burned. Alas, the dingy cygnet never turned Into a wood duck. And again your voice: 320  «But this is prejudice! You should rejoice That she is innocent. Why overstress The physical? She wants to look a mess. Virgins have written some resplendent books. Lovemaking is not everything. Good looks Are not that indispensable!» And still Old Pan would call from every painted hill, And still the demons of our pity spoke: No lips would share the lipstick of her smoke; The telephone that rang before a ball 330  Every two minutes in Sorosa Hall For her would never ring; and, with a great Screeching of tires on gravel, to the gate Out of lacquered night, a white-scarfed beau Would never come for her; she'd never go, A dream of gauze and jasmine, to that dance. We sent her, though, to a ch^ateau in France. And she returned in tears, with new defeats, New miseries. On days when all the streets Of College Town led to the game, she'd sit 340  On the library steps, and read or knit; Mostly alone she'd be, or with that nice Frail roommate, now a nun; and, once or twice, With a Korean boy who took my course. She had strange fears, strange fantasies, strange force Of character — as when she spent three nights Investigating certain sounds and lights In an old barn. She twisted words: pot, top, Spider, redips. And «powder» was «red wop.» She called you a didactic katydid. 350  She hardly ever smiled, and when she did, It was a sign of pain. She'd criticize Ferociously our projects, and with eyes Expressionless sit on her tumbled bed Spreading her swollen feet, scratching her head With psoriatic fingernails, and moan, Murmuring dreadful words in monotone. She was my darling: difficult, morose — But still my darling. You remember those Almost unruffled evenings when we played 360  Mah-jongg, or she tried on your furs, which made Her almost fetching; and the mirrors smiled, The lights were merciful, the shadows mild. Sometimes I'd help her with a Latin text, Or she'd be reading in her bedroom, next To my fluorescent lair, and you would be In your own study, twice removed from me, And I would hear both voices now and then: «Mother, what's grimpen?» «What is what?» «Grim Pen.» Pause, and your guarded scholium. Then again: 370  «Mother, what's chtonic?» That, too, you'd explain, Appending: «Would you like a tangerine?» «No. Yes. And what does sempiternal mean?» You'd hesitate. And lustily I'd roar The answer from my desk through the closed door. It does not matter what it was she read (some phony modern poem that was said In English Lit to be a document «Engazhay and compelling» — what this meant Nobody cared); the point is that the three 380  Chambers, then bound by you and her and me, Now form a tryptich or a three-act play In which portrayed events forever stay. I think she always nursed a small mad hope. I'd finished recently my book on Pope. Jane Dean, my typist, offered her one day To meet Pete Dean, a cousin. Jane's fianc'e Would then take all of them in his new car A score of miles to a Hawaiian bar. The boy was picked up at a quarter past 390  Eight in New Wye. Sleet glazed the roads. At last They found the place — when suddenly Pete Dean Clutching his brow exclaimed that he had clean Forgotten an appointment with a chum Who'd land in jail if he, Pete, did not come, Et cetera. She said she understood. After he'd gone the three young people stood Before the azure entrance for awhile. Puddles were neon-barred; and with a smile She said she'd be de trop, she'd much prefer 400  Just going home. Her friends escorted her To the bus stop and left; but she, instead Of riding home, got off at Lochanhead. You scrutinized your wrist: «It's eight fifteen. [And here time forked.] I'll turn it on.» The screen In its blank broth evolved a lifelike blur, And music welled. He took one look at her, And shot a death ray at well-meaning Jane. A male hand traced from Florida to Maine The curving arrows of Aeolian wars. 410  You said that later a quartet of bores, Two writers and two critics, would debate The Cause of Poetry on Channel 8. A nymph came pirouetting, under white Rotating petals, in a vernal rite To kneel before an altar in a wood Where various articles of toilet stood. I went upstairs and read a galley proof, And heard the wind roll marbles on the roof. «See the blind beggar dance, the cripple sing» 420  Has unmistakably the vulgar ring Of its preposterous age. Then came your call, My tender mockingbird, up from the hall. I was in time to overhear brief fame And have a cup of tea with you: my name Was mentioned twice, as usual just behind (one oozy footstep) Frost. «Sure you don't mind? I'll catch the Exton plane, because you know If I don't come by midnight with the dough —» And then there was a kind of travelog: 430  A host narrator took us through the fog Of a March night, where headlights from afar Approached and grew like a dilating star, To the green, indigo and tawny sea Which we had visited in thirty-three, Nine months before her birth. Now it was all Pepper-and-salt, and hardly could recall That first long ramble, the relentless light, The flock of sails (one blue among the white Clashed queerly with the sea, and two were red), 440  The man in the old blazer, crumbing bread, The crowding gulls insufferably loud, And one dark pigeon waddling in the crowd. «Was that the phone?» You listened at the door. Nothing. Picked up the program from the floor. More headlights in the fog. There was no sense In window-rubbing; only some white fence And the reflector poles passed by unmasked. «Are we quite sure she's acting right?» you asked. «It's technically a blind date, of course. 450  Well, shall we try the preview of Remorse?» And we allowed, in all tranquillity, The famous film to spread its charmed marquee; The famous face flowed in, fair and inane: The parted lips, the swimming eyes, the grain Of beauty on the cheek, odd gallicism, And the soft form dissolving in the prism Of corporate desire. «I think,» she said, «I'll get off here.» «It's only Lochanhead.» «Yes, that's okay.» Gripping the stang, she peered 460  At ghostly trees. Bus stopped. Bus disappeared. Thunder above the Jungle. «No, not that!» Pat Pink, our guest (antiatomic chat). Eleven struck. You sighed. «Well, I'm afraid There's nothing else of interest.» You played Network roulette: the dial turned and trk'ed. Commercials were beheaded. Faces flicked. An open mouth in midsong was struck out. An imbecile with sideburns was about To use his gun, but you were much too quick. 470  A jovial Negro raised his trumpet. Trk. Your ruby ring made life and laid the law. Oh, switch it off! And as life snapped we saw A pinhead light dwindle and die in black Infinity. Out of his lakeside shack A watchman, Father Time, all gray and bent, Emerged with his uneasy dog and went Along the reedy bank. He came too late. You gently yawned and stacked away your plate. We heard the wind. We heard it rush and throw 480  Twigs at the windowpane. Phone ringing? No. I helped you with the dishes. The tall clock Kept on demolishing young root, old rock. «Midnight,» you said. What's midnight to the young? And suddenly a festive blaze was flung Across five cedar trunks, snowpatches showed, And a patrol car on our bumpy road Came to a crunching stop. Retake, retake! People have thought she tried to cross the lake At Lochan Neck where zesty skaters crossed 490  From Exe to Wye on days of special frost. Others supposed she might have lost her way By turning left from Bridgeroad; and some say She took her poor young life. I know. You know. It was a night of thaw, a night of blow, With great excitement in the air. Black spring Stood just around the corner, shivering In the wet starlight and on the wet ground. The lake lay in the mist, its ice half drowned. A blurry shape stepped off the reedy bank 500  Into a crackling, gulping swamp, and sank.