James Merrill himself once called his body of work "chronicles of love and loss," and in twenty books written over four decades he used the details of his own lifecomic and haunting, exotic and domesticto shape a portrait that in turn mirrored the image of our world and our moment. This volume rings together the best of Merrillfrom the domestic rupture of "The Broken Home" to the universal connections of "Lost in Translation"; from the American storyteller of "The Summer People" to the ecologically motivated satirist of "Self-Portrait in a TyvekTM Windbreaker." Merrill dazzles at every turn, and this balanced and compact selection will be an ideal introduction to the work for both students and general readers, and an instant favorite among his familiars. Log Then when the flame forked like a sudden path I gasped and stumbled, and was less. Density pulsing upward, gauze of ash, Dear light along the way to nothingness, What could be made of you but light, and this?

James Merrill (1926–1995) wrote twelve books of poems, as well as the epic The Changing Light at Sandover. He published two plays, two novels, and a memoir, A Different Person. The recipient of numerous awards for his poetry, including two National Book Awards, the Bollingen Prize, the Pulitzer Prize, and the Bobbitt Prize from the Library of Congress, Merrill was also a chancellor of the Academy of American Poets and a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters.

Introduction
FromFirst Poems,1951
The Black Swan The House From
The Country of a Thousand Years of Peace,1959
The Country of a Thousand Years of Peace
The Lovers A Renewal Upon a Second Marriage
The Charioteer of Delphi Mirror Marsyas
The Doodler Voices From the Other World In the Hall of Mirrors
A Dedication From
Water Street,1962
An Urban Convalescence After Greece
For Proust Scenes of Childhood
Angel Swimming by Night A Tenancy From
Nights and Days,1966 Nightgown
The Thousand and Second Night Time Charles on Fire
The Broken Home
The Current
The Mad Scene From
The Cupola Days of 1964 From
The Fire Screen,1969 Lorelei
The Friend of the Fourth Decade Words for Maria To My Greek
Last Words Another August Mornings in a New House Matinées
The Summer People From
Braving the Elements, 1972
Log After the Fire Days of 1935 18 West 11th Street Willowware
Cup From Up and Down Flèche d’or Days of 1971
The Victor Dog Syrinx From
Divine Comedies, 1976
The Kimono Lost in Translation Chimes for Yahya Yánnina Verse for Urania
The Will FromThe Changing Light at Sandover, 1982 From
The Book of Ephraim FromScripts for the Pageant
From Late Settings, 1985 Grass
The Pier: Under Pisces
The School Play Page From the Koran Santo Bronze Channel 13 Paul Valéry: Palme After the Ball
From The Inner Room, 1988 Little Fallacy Arabian Night
The Parnassians Ginger Beef Dead Center Losing the Marbles
Investiture at Cecconi’s Farewell Performance Processional From
A Scattering of Salts, 1995 A Downward
Look Nine Lives Snow Jobs
The Instilling My Father’s Irish Setters Vol. XLIV, No. 3 b o d y
Pledge Family Week at Oracle Ranch Overdue Pilgrimage to Nova Scotia Self-Portrait in Tyvek
TM Windbreaker An Upward Look From
Collected Poems, 2001 After Cavafy Oranges
In the Pink Rhapsody on Czech
Themes Christmas Tree Koi Days of 1994
Notes
Short Chronology Suggestions for Further Reading
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THE BLACK SWAN

Black on flat water past the jonquil lawns
Riding, the black swan draws
A private chaos warbling in its wake,
Assuming, like a fourth dimension, splendor
That calls the child with white ideas of swans
Nearer to that green lake
Where every paradox means wonder.

Though the black swan’s arched neck is like
A question-mark on the lake,
The swan outlaws all possible questioning:
A thing in itself, like love, like submarine
Disaster, or the first sound when we wake;
And the swan-song it sings
Is the huge silence of the swan.

Illusion: the black swan knows how to break
Through expectation, beak
Aimed now at its own breast, now at its image,
And move across our lives, if the lake is life,
And by the gentlest turning of its neck
Transform, in time, time’s damage;
To less than a black plume, time’s grief.

Enchanter: the black swan has learned to enter
Sorrow’s lost secret center
Where like a maypole separate tragedies
Are wound about a tower of ribbons, and where
The central hollowness is that pure winter
That does not change but is
Always brilliant ice and air.

Always the black swan moves on the lake; always
The blond child stands to gaze
As the tall emblem pivots and rides out
To the opposite side, always. The child upon
The bank, hands full of difficult marvels, stays
Forever to cry aloud
In anguish: I love the black swan.

THE HOUSE

Whose west walls take the sunset like a blow
Will have turned the other cheek by morning, though
The long night falls between, as wise men know:

Wherein the wind, that daily we forgot,
Comes mixed with rain and, while we seek it not,
Appears against our faces to have sought

The contours of a listener in night air,
His profile bent as from pale windows where
Soberly once he learned what houses were.

Those darkening reaches, crimsoned with a dust
No longer earth’s, but of the vanishing West,
Can stir a planet nearly dispossessed,

And quicken interest in the avid vein
That dyes a man’s heart ruddier far than stain
Of day does finial, cornice and windowpane:

So that whoever strolls on his launched lawn
At dusk, the hour of recompense, alone,
May stumbling on a sunken boundary stone

The loss of deed and structure apprehend.
And we who homeless toward such houses wend
May find we have dwelt elsewhere. Scholar and friend,

After the twelve bright houses that each day
Presume to flatter what we most display,
Night is a cold house, a narrow doorway.

This door to no key opens, those to brass.
Behind it, warning of a deep excess,
The winds are. I have entered, nevertheless,

And seen the wet-faced sleepers the winds take
To heart; have felt their dreadful profits break
Beyond my seeing: at a glance they wake.

THE COUNTRY OF A THOUSAND YEARS OF PEACE
to Hans Lodeizen (1924–1950)

Here they all come to die,
Fluent therein as in a fourth tongue.
But for a young man not yet of their race
It was a madness you should lie

Blind in one eye, and fed
By the blood of a scrubbed face;
It was a madness to look down
On the toy city where

The glittering neutrality
Of clock and chocolate and lake and cloud
Made every morning somewhat
Less than you could bear;

And makes me cry aloud
At the old masters of disease
Who dangling high above you on a hair
The sword that, never falling, kills

Would coax you still back from that starry land
Under the world, which no one sees
Without a death, its finish and sharp weight
Flashing in his own hand.

THE LOVERS

They met in loving like the hands of one
Who having worked six days with creature and plant
Washes his hands before the evening meal.
Reflected in a basin out-of-doors
The golden sky receives his hands beneath
Its coldly wishing surface, washing them

Of all perhaps but what of one another
Each with its five felt perceptions holds:
A limber warmth, fitness of palm and nail
So long articulate in his mind before
Plunged into happening, that all the while
Water laps and loves the stirring hands

His eye has leisure for the young fruit-trees
And lowing beasts secure, since night is near,
Pasture, lights of a distant town, and sky
Molten, atilt, strewn on new water, sky
In which for a last fact he dips his face
And lifts it glistening: what dark distinct

Reflections of his features upon gold!
—Except for when each slow slight water-drop
He sensed on chin and nose accumulate,
Each tiny world of sky reversed and branches,
Fell with its pure wealth to mar the image:
World after world fallen into the sky

And still so much world left when, by the fire
With fingers clasped, he set in revolution
Certitude and chance like strong slow thumbs;
Or read from an illuminated page
Of harvest, flood, motherhood, mystery:
These waited, and would issue from his hands.

A RENEWAL

Having used every subterfuge
To shake you, lies, fatigue, or even that of passion,
Now I see no way but a clean break.
I add that I am willing to bear the guilt.

You nod assent. Autumn turns windy, huge,
A clear vase of dry leaves vibrating on and on.
We sit, watching. When I next speak
Love buries itself in me, up to the hilt.

UPON A SECOND MARRIAGE
for H. I. P.

Orchards, we linger here because
Women we love stand propped in your green prisons,
Obedient to such justly bending laws
Each one longs to take root,
Lives to confess whatever season’s
Pride of blossom or endeavor’s fruit
May to her rustling boughs have risen.

Then autumn reddens the whole mind.
No more, she vows, the dazzle of a year
Shall woo her from your bare cage of loud wind,
Promise the ring and run
To burn the altar, reappear
With apple blossoms for the credulous one.
Orchards, we wonder that we linger here!

Orchards we planted, trees we shook
To learn what you were bearing, say we stayed
Because one winter dusk we half-mistook
Frost on a bleakened bough
For blossoms, and were half-afraid
To miss the old persuasion, should we go.
And spring did come, and discourse made

Enough of weddings to us all
That, loving her for whom the whole world grows
Fragrant and white, we linger to recall
As down aisles of cut trees
How a tall trunk’s cross-section shows
Concentric rings, those many marriages
That life on each live thing bestows.

THE CHARIOTEER OF DELPHI

Where are the horses of the sun?

Their master’s green bronze hand, empty of all
But a tangle of reins, seems less to call
His horses back than to wait out their run.

To cool that havoc and restore
The temperance we had loved them for
I have implored him, child, at your behest.

Watch now, the flutings of his dress hang down
From the brave patina of breast.
His gentle eyes glass brown

Neither attend us nor the latest one
Blistered and stammering who comes to cry
Village in flames and river dry,

None to control the chariot
And to call back the killing horses none
Now that their master, eyes ashine, will not.

For watch, his eyes in the still air alone
Look shining and nowhere
Unless indeed into our own

Who are reflected there
Littler than dolls wound up by a child’s fear
How tight, their postures only know.

And loosely, watch now, the reins overflow
His fist, as if once more the unsubdued
Beasts shivering and docile stood

Like us before him. Do you remember how
A small brown pony would
Nuzzle the cube of sugar from your hand?

Broken from his mild reprimand
In fire and fury hard upon the taste
Of a sweet license, even these have raced

Uncurbed in us, where fires are fanned.

MIRROR

I grow old under an intensity
Of questioning looks. Nonsense,
I try to say, I cannot teach you children
How to live.—If not you, who will?
Cries one of them aloud, grasping my gilded
Frame till the world sways. If not you, who will?
Between their visits the table, its arrangement
Of Bible, fern and Paisley, all past change,
Does very nicely. If ever I feel curious
As to what others endure,
Across the parlor you provide examples,
Wide open, sunny, of everything I am
Not. You embrace a whole world without once caring
To set it in order. That takes thought. Out there
Something is being picked. The red-and-white bandannas
Go to my heart. A fine young man
Rides by on horseback. Now the door shuts. Hester
Confides in me her first unhappiness.
This much, you see, would never have been fitted
Together, but for me. Why then is it
They more and more neglect me? Late one sleepless
Midsummer night I strained to keep
Five tapers from your breathing. No, the widowed
Cousin said, let them go out. I did.
The room brimmed with gray sound, all the instreaming
Muslin of your dream . . .
Years later now, two of the grown grandchildren
Sit with novels face-down on the sill,
Content to muse upon your tall transparence,
Your clouds, brown fields, persimmon far
And cypress near. One speaks. How superficial
Appearances are! Since then, as if a fish
Had broken the perfect silver of my reflectiveness,
I have lapses. I suspect
Looks from behind, where nothing is, cool gazes
Through the blind flaws of my mind. As days,
As decades lengthen, this vision
Spreads and blackens. I do not know whose it is,
But I think it watches for my last silver
To blister, flake, float leaf by life, each milling-
Downward dumb conceit, to a standstill
From which not even you strike any brilliant
Chord in me, and to a faceless will,
Echo of mine, I am amenable.

Excerpted from Selected Poems by James Merrill
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