The Flood

I am not what I seem. Past midnight, now, awake In someone else's house, I see as in a dream Another time and place And see past light and shade The maple at the edge Of Dave Maguire's field. I think who I must be:

Climbing the skylight ledge, A boy out on the roof, A man at ease in bed. The chimney steadies me. And everywhere I look The feathered tops of trees - Cedar and elm and pine — Lie on the ruffling air Like islands in a lake All Maylight, gold, and green, Until illusion breaks In ripples at my feet. I touch pure atmosphere And like a prophet know This flood may drown me yet. This perfect sense of space Is all. The tree-tops flow. So Noah watched them toss Millennia ago. And now I see them so. I lie in bed awake, Remembering. The crows Fly past the tilting roof. The sunken world for miles Reflects my staring eye: Maguire's maple tree, The Polock's farm beyond, No bigger than my hand. I feel the undertow. Ten fathoms down the field Gives back the shaken light. Like smoke the currents lift, Grow thin and blue and fade From Wenham Swamp; and drowned, The sheep seem still to graze On what was Porter's Hill.

I listen for the freight From Topsfield; but I hear Uneasy as the air That puzzles me tonight My father's gentle voice: "Come down," he calls. "Come down. What can you see up there?" And suddenly the world Is as it used to be.

The trees are only trees. A crow flaps by, and caws. I catch the drifting smoke From Wenham Swamp, the light I had not noticed, cold As terror now, and bright. "Son, give your hand to me," I hear the good voice say. "Take hold of me and keep Your eyes on mine." I climb Back in, and turn to look Straight down the golden air I do not see him now But turn, a man in bed Too long awake at night Or waking in a dream I cannot understand. I try to take his hand.

Richmond Lattimore '26

Samuel French Morse '36

Reuel Denney '32

Philip Booth '47