To the Etruscan Poets in  General   

Dream fluently, still brothers, who when young
Took with your mother's milk the mother tongue,

In which pure matrix, joining world and mind,
You strove to leave some line of verse behind

Like still fresh tracks across a field of snow,
Not reckoning that all could melt and go.

By Richard Wilbur

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Other poems by Richard Wilbur:

• A Fable
• A World Without Objects is a Sensible Emptiness
• Advice to a Prophet
• Boy at the Window
• Epistemology
• Exeunt
• For K.R. on her Sixtieth Birthday
• Having Misidentified A Wildflower
• In a Churchyard
• In the Smoking Car
• Juggler
• June Light
• Love Calls Us To The Things Of This World
• March 26, 1974
• Matthew VIII,28 ff.
• Museum Piece
• Orchard Trees, January
• Parable
• Puritans
• Riddle
• Shame
• The Beautiful Changes
• The Prisoner of Zenda
• The Riddle
• The Ride
• To the Etruscan Poets
• Transit
• Wedding Toast
• Worlds