Anaphora

Fotografia Olho de Gato

Each day with so much ceremony

begins, with birds, with bells,

with whistles from a factory;

such white-gold skies our eyes

first open on, such brilliant walls

that for a moment we wonder

"Where is the music coming from, the energy?

The day was meant for what ineffable creature

we must have missed?" Oh promptly he

appears and takes his earthly nature

instantly, instantly falls

victim of long intrigue,

assuming memory and mortal

mortal fatigue.

More slowly falling into sight

and showering into stippled faces,

darkening, condensing all his light;

in spite of all the dreaming

squandered upon him with that look,

suffers our uses and abuses,

sinks through the drift of bodies,

sinks through the drift of vlasses

to evening to the beggar in the park

who, weary, without lamp or book

prepares stupendous studies:

the fiery event

of every day in endless

endless assent.

Elizabeth Bishop