#robert hillyer

[poem-today]

A poem by Robert Hillyer

Early in the Morning

Early in the morning Of a lovely summer day, As they lowered the bright awning At the outdoor café, I was breakfasting on croissants And café au lait Under greenery like scenery, Rue François Premier. They were hosing the hot pavement With a dash of flashing spray And a smell of summer showers When the dust is drenched away, Under greenery like scenery, Rue François Premier. I was twenty and a lover And in Paradise to stay, Very early in the morning Of a lovely summer day.

Robert Hillyer (1895-1961)

Image: Le Café Mode, 24, rue François 1er, Paris

[missedstations]

“Fog” - Robert Hillyer

Where does the sea end and the sky begin? We sink in blue for which there is no word. Two sails, fog-coloured, loiter on the thin Mirage of ocean. There is no sound of wind, nor wave, nor bird, Nor any motion. Except the shifting mists that turn and lift, Showing behind the two limp sails a third, Then blotting it again.

A gust, a spattering of rain, The lazy water breaks in nervous rings. Somewhere a bleak bell buoy sings, Muffled at first, then clear, Its wet, grey monotone.

The dead are here. We are not quite alone.

[ochoislas]

XIV

Mi soledad un tanto compartiste, comiste un tanto el pan de desamparo, y con pobre caricia te pagaste o con asalto de arbitrario enojo. Me dejaste de pronto, por la brega del mundo, y por ganarte tu sustento entre mortales que sí comprendías, en vez de hacerte sabio en el desierto.

Vuelves ahora allí donde me huïste, y ya no estoy. Me llamas desde lejos, y es en vano. No alcanzo a ver detrás tu gracia y juventud que tanto amara. De esfera a esfera mudo ineluctable, no espero alma ninguna, cuanto cara.

*

XIV

A while you shared my path and solitude, A while you ate the bread of loneliness, And satisfied yourself with a caress Or with a careless overflow of mood. And then you left me suddenly, to press Into the world again, and seek your food Among the mortals whom you understood, Instead of learning in the wilderness.

Now you return to where you fled from me, And find me gone. You call me from afar, And call in vain; I can not turn to see You loveliness, beloved as you are. Inexorably I move from sphere to sphere, Nor wait for any soul, however dear.

Robert Hillyer

di-versión©ochoislas

[potatoesandsunshine]

[detroitlib]

From our vertical files: "In My Library, Late Afternoon" by Robert Hillyer

[poem-today]

A poem by Robert Hillyer

A MEMORY

Skipping flat pebbles over the dark pond— One of yours flipped nine times before it sank— We watched the ripples spread, round after round, Until the circles broke against the bank. We played until the sun set, and the dank Mist, heavy with the spicy smell of fern, Rose from the reeds and warned us to return.

Of lives that intersect, then go their way, At last to lose themselves alone against The shores of silence, our brief hours of play Seem now the symbol: the bright memory fenced With deep, oblivious forest, and condensed Into one flash, one fragmentary scene That skips the surface of the years between.

You had a decade left that afternoon Before you were to die in the first war; But deep within me, like a sealed cocoon, The memory clung, for fifty years and more, To open for one sudden flight and soar Into this moment lost in time beyond Two small boys skipping pebbles over the pond.

Robert Hillyer (1895-1961)

[poem-today]

A poem by Robert Hillyer

Fog

Where does the sea end and the sky begin? We sink in blue for which there is no word. Two sails, fog-coloured, loiter on the thin Mirage of ocean. There is no sound of wind, nor wave, nor bird, Nor any motion. Except the shifting mists that turn and lift, Showing behind the two limp sails a third, Then blotting it again.

A gust, a spattering of rain, The lazy water breaks in nervous rings. Somewhere a bleak bell buoy sings, Muffled at first, then clear, Its wet, grey monotone.

The dead are here. We are not quite alone.

Robert Hillyer

1895-1961

[gloop-augustus]

Fog by Robert Hillyer

Where does the sea end and the sky begin?

We sink in blue for which there is no word.

Two sails, fog-coloured, loiter on the thin

Mirage of ocean.

There is no sound of wind, nor wave, nor bird,

Nor any motion.

Except the shifting mists that turn and lift,

Showing behind the two limp sails a third,

Then blotting it again.

A gust, a spattering of rain,

The lazy water breaks in nervous rings.

Somewhere a bleak bell buoy sings,

Muffled at first, then clear,

Its wet, grey monotone.

The dead are here.

We are not quite alone.