Out of the brilliance where the sun streams in
Through one wide open window, at my desk,
I read grave histories or study thin
Scholastic arguments, leaf through grotesque
Impulsive Gothic fiction, or translate
The metered Greek and level Latin prose.
Ranged in the shadows, books, inanimate
Against the wall, are fixed in heavy rows.
Here every afternoon where leaded panes
Refract the summer light that breaks in schemes
Of color on oak floorboards, darkly stains
The shined mahogany furnishings or gleams
On cherry wood, I write in silence. Wind
Stirs the curtains. I am half aware
Of summer out of doors, undisciplined
Abundance of green leafing, humid air,
Wide, hazy blue of sky above thick trees,
Tall elms and heavy maples, bristling pines,
Stirred in the light wind. Yet I turn from these
Toward summer darkness, where my mind assigns
Itself to learning, willing not to look
Outdoors at sunlight. I am satisfied
By the black craft of letters, by the book
Under my hands, illumined from outside.