Recessional

In the bright broad Swiss glare I stand listening
To the outrageous roars
Of the Engelbereraa
As it swirls down the gorge
And I think I am thinking
Of Roderick Hudson.
But, as I stand,
Time closes over sight,
And sound
Is drowned
By a long silvery roar
From the far ends of memory
Of a world I have left
And I find I am thinking:
Supposing I drowned now,
This tired, tiresome body,
Before flesh creases further,
Might, recovered, go, fair,
To be laid in Saint Lachtin’s,
Near where once,
In tender, less glaring, island days
And ways
I could hear—
Where listeners still hear—
That far-away, dear
Roar
The long, silvery roar
Of Mal Bay.