I might as well finish up with Wheelock now.  This is another poem about aging.  But I think there are some wonderful things, things filled with wonder, that speak to me in it.  He talks about age as a time for praise and adoration and gratitude.  he talks about the face “from which the eyes of love look out at us.”  He talks of his house, “marvellous with ghosts, where so much love Dwelt for a little while and made such music … Oh, all is music!  All has been turned to music!  All that has vanished has been turned to music!”  He seems to strike a wonderful balance between the inevitability of loss and ending and suffering and the wonder of living in God’s creation.  So here it is:

Night Thoughts in Age

Light, that out of the west looked back once more
Through lids of cloud, has closed a sleepy eye;
The heaven of stars bends over me its silence,
A harp through which the wind of time still whispers
Music some hand has hushed but left there trembling–
Conceits of an aging man who lies awake
Under familiar rafters, in this leafy
Bird-singing, haunted, green ancestral spot
Where time has made such music! For often now,
In this belovèd country whose coastal shores
Look seaward, without limit, to the south–
Land of flung spume and spray, sea-winds and -voices
Where the gull rides the gale on equal wing,
With motionless body and forward-looking head,
Where, in mid-summer days, offshore, the dolphin
Hurdles the water with arching leap and plunge–
I meditate, lying awake, alone,
On the sea’s voice and time’s receding music,
Felt ebbing in the heart and shrunken vein–
How time, that takes us all, will at the last,
In taking us, take the whole world we are dreaming:
Sun, wind and sea, whisper of rain at night,
The young, hollow-cheeked moon, the clouds of evening
Drifting in a great solitude–all these
Shall time take away, surely, and the face
From which the eyes of love look out at us
In this brief world, this horror-haunted kingdom
Of beauty and of longing and of terror,
Of phantoms and illusion, of appearance
And disappearance–magic of leger-de-main,
Trick of the prestidigitator’s wand–
The huge phantasmagoria we are dreaming:
This shall time take from us, and take forever,
When we are taken by that receding music.
O marvel of things, fabulous dream, too soon,
Too soon will the wild blood cry out and death
Quell, with one blow, the inscrutable fantasy!
Shall prayer change this? Youth is the hour for prayer,
That has so much to pray for; a man’s life,
Lived howsoever, is a long reconcilement
To the high, lonely, unforgiving truth,
Which will not change for his or any prayer,
Now or hereafter: in that reconcilement
Lies all of wisdom. Age is the hour for praise,
Praise that is joy, praise that is acquiescence,
Praise that is adoration and gratitude
For all that has been given and not been given.
Night flows on. The wind, that all night through
Quickened the treetops with a breath of ocean,
Veers inland, falls away, and the sea’s voice,
Learned in lost childhood, a remembered music,
By day or night, through love, through sleep, through dream,
Still breathing its perpetual benediction,
Has dwindled to a sigh. By the west window,
In the soft dark the leaves of the sycamore
Stir gently, rustle, and are still, are listening
To a silence that is music. The old house
Is full of ghosts, dear ghosts on stair and landing,
Ghosts in chamber and hall; garden and walk
Are marvellous with ghosts, where so much love
Dwelt for a little while and made such music,
Before it too was taken by the tide
That takes us all, of time’s receding music.
Oh, all is music! All has been turned to music!
All that is vanished has been turned to music!
And these familiar rafters, that have known
The child, the young man and the man, now shelter
The aging man, who lies here, listening, listening–
All night, in a half dream, I have lain here listening.

–copyright (c) John Hall Wheelock, included in This Blessed Earth, New and Selected Poems,1927-1977, published by Charles Scribner’s Sons

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