Transit in  General   

A woman I have never seen before
Steps from the darkness of her town-house door
At just that crux of time when she is made
So beautiful that she or time must fade.

What use to claim that as she tugs her gloves
A phantom heraldry of all the loves
Blares from the lintel? That the staggered sun
Forgets, in his confusion, how to run?

Still, nothing changes as her perfect feet
Click down the walk that issues in the street,
Leaving the stations of her body there
Like whips that map the countries of the air.

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