Syringa

　　 by John Ashbery

　　 Orpheus liked the glad personal quality

　　 Of the things beneath the sky. Of course， Eurydice was a part

　　 Of this. Then one day， everything changed. He rends

　　 Rocks into fissures with lament. Gullies， hummocks

　　 Can't withstand it. The sky shudders from one horizon

　　 To the other， almost ready to give up wholeness.

　　 Then Apollo quietly told him： "Leave it all on earth.

　　 Your lute， what point？ Why pick at a dull pavan few care to

　　 Follow， except a few birds of dusty feather，

　　 Not vivid performances of the past." But why not？

　　 All other things must change too.

　　 The seasons are no longer what they once were，

　　 But it is the nature of things to be seen only once，

　　 As they happen along， bumping into other things， getting along

　　 Somehow. That's where Orpheus made his mistake.

　　 Of course Eurydice vanished into the shade；

　　 She would have even if he hadn't turned around.

　　 No use standing there like a gray stone toga as the whole wheel

　　 Of recorded history flashes past， struck dumb， unable to

　　 utter an intelligent

　　 Comment on the most thought-provoking element in its train.

　　 Only love stays on the brain， and something these people，

　　 These other ones， call life. Singing accurately

　　 So that the notes mount straight up out of the well of

　　 Dim noon and rival the tiny， sparkling yellow flowers

　　 Growing around the brink of the quarry， encapsulizes

　　 The different weights of the things.

　　 But it isn't enough

　　 To just go on singing. Orpheus realized this

　　 And didn't mind so much about his reward being in heaven

　　 After the Bacchantes had torn him apart， driven

　　 Half out of their minds by his music， what it was doing to them.

　　 Some say it was for his treatment of Eurydice.

　　 But probably the music had more to do with it， and

　　 The way music passes， emblematic

　　 Of life and how you cannot isolate a note of it

　　 And say it is good or bad. You must

　　 Wait till it's over. "The end crowns all，"

　　 Meaning also that the "tableau"

　　 Is wrong. For although memories， of a season， for example，

　　 Melt into a single snapshot， one cannot guard， treasure

　　 That stalled moment. It too is flowing， fleeting；

　　 It is a picture of flowing， scenery， though living， mortal，

　　 Over which an abstract action is laid out in blunt，

　　 Harsh strokes. And to ask more than this

　　 Is to become the tossing reeds of that slow，

　　 Powerful stream， the trailing grasses

　　 Playfully tugged at， but to participate in the action

　　 No more than this. Then in the lowering gentian sky

　　 Electric twitches are faintly apparent first， then burst forth

　　 Into a shower of fixed， cream-colored flares. The horses

　　 Have each seen a share of the truth， though each thinks，

　　 "I'm a maverick. Nothing of this is happening to me，

　　 Though I can understand the language of birds， and

　　 The itinerary of the lights caught in the storm is

　　 fully apparent to me.

　　 Their jousting ends in music much

　　 As trees move more easily in the wind after a summer storm

　　 And is happening in lacy shadows of shore-trees， now，

　　 day after day."

　　 But how late to be regretting all this， even

　　 Bearing in mind that regrets are always late， too late！

　　 To which Orpheus， a bluish cloud with white contours，

　　 Replies that these are of course not regrets at all，

　　 Merely a careful， scholarly setting down of

　　 Unquestioned facts， a record of pebbles along the way.

　　 And no matter how all this disappeared，

　　 Or got where it was going， it is no longer

　　 Material for a poem. Its subject

　　 Matters too much， and not enough， standing there helplessly

　　 While the poem streaked by， its tail afire， a bad

　　 Comet screaming hate and disaster， but so turned inward

　　 That the meaning， good or other， can never

　　 Become known. The singer thinks

　　 Constructively， builds up his chant in progressive stages

　　 Like a skyscraper， but at the last minute turns away.

　　 The song is engulfed in an instant in blackness

　　 Which must in turn flood the whole continent

　　 With blackness， for it cannot see. The singer

　　 Must then pass out of sight， not even relieved

　　 Of the evil burthen of the words. Stellification

　　 Is for the few， and comes about much later

　　 When all record of these people and their lives

　　 Has disappeared into libraries， onto microfilm.

　　 A few are still interested in them. "But what about

　　 So-and-so？" is still asked on occasion. But they lie

　　 Frozen and out of touch until an arbitrary chorus

　　 Speaks of a totally different incident with a similar name

　　 In whose tale are hidden syllables

　　 Of what happened so long before that

　　 In some small town， one different summer.

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