When we first moved into our current apartment–a quirky, wall-papered corner of an old Victorian house–my husband and I attempted to make a portion of our kitchen wall (a crumbling, inexplicably varnished cork board) more appealing by covering it with a selection of poems taken from old anthologies. The overall effect pleases me: a little literary shrine of sorts. Some seventy or so poems are thus scattered above our breakfast table, and, though they don’t attract my attention every day, I sometimes find my tea grows cold as I sit transfixed by Frost or Eliot early in the morning.
Today my eyes fell on a poem by Richard Wilbur, one that I’ve never read attentively before. It’s called Year’s End. It’s certainly appropriate to the season. I won’t copy the entire text out here, but the last stanza struck me as particularly fitting. He writes,