Skunk Hour
　　by Robert Lowell
　　 For Elizabeth Bishop

　　 Nautilus Island's hermit

　　 heiress still lives through winter in her Spartan cottage；

　　 her sheep still graze above the sea.

　　 Her son's a bishop. Her farmer

　　 is first selectman in our village，

　　 she's in her dotage.

　　 Thirsting for

　　 the hierarchic privacy

　　 of Queen Victoria's century，

　　 she buys up all

　　 the eyesores facing her shore，

　　 and lets them fall.

　　 The season's ill--

　　 we've lost our summer millionaire，

　　 who seemed to leap from an L. L. Bean

　　 catalogue. His nine-knot yawl

　　 was auctioned off to lobstermen.

　　 A red fox stain covers Blue Hill.

　　 And now our fairy

　　 decorator brightens his shop for fall，

　　 his fishnet's filled with orange cork，

　　 orange， his cobbler's bench and awl，

　　 there is no money in his work，

　　 he'd rather marry.

　　 One dark night，

　　 my Tudor Ford climbed the hill's skull，

　　 I watched for love-cars. Lights turned down，

　　 they lay together， hull to hull，

　　 where the graveyard shelves on the town. . . .

　　 My mind's not right.

　　 A car radio bleats，

　　 'Love， O careless Love . . . .' I hear

　　 my ill-spirit sob in each blood cell，

　　 as if my hand were at its throat . . . .

　　 I myself am hell，

　　 nobody's here--

　　 only skunks， that search

　　 in the moonlight for a bite to eat.

　　 They march on their soles up Main Street：

　　 white stripes， moonstruck eyes' red fire

　　 under the chalk-dry and spar spire

　　 of the Trinitarian Church.

　　 I stand on top

　　 of our back steps and breathe the rich air--

　　 a mother skunk with her column of kittens swills the

　　 garbage pail

　　 She jabs her wedge-head in a cup

　　 of sour cream， drops her ostrich tail，

　　 and will not scare.