I foresaw a caravan go by in

Single-filed rich array, and dressed in

Silk and gaudy bright brutality, thin

Figures painted all around, demeaned in

   Squinting at leaders before, those walking

         Close behind, cordons winding, trailing from

         The dark to a black massed heart of storm.

            So they went. But some left to follow first

              Pressures, merely turning the ghost leaf back,

                   Giving birds a last flight; their thirst and grass

              Waiting for rain from anvil-headed black.

Those remaining walked past all these, still to

   The storm, peering at their own line—wordless,

         Full of stops and cares, carrying their deceased

When they would topple and start to pitch through

            The airy trail; they tried remembering them.

   But the errant ones in open artfulness,

         Common dreamers perhaps with common dream,

            Fled instead to tops of breezes; and quick,

         And self-rising to the tempest, now seem

                   To see a form or figure on the ridge

            Beyond the curtained rain, falling for the sick,

   But unheedful of their state; and above

         Even that they could find clear winds

            Continually blowing over peril, no less

                   Over calm, not waiting, but receptive,

            With rites of fleeting grandeur staged for flesh.

Then again the line’s full, and rife with talk,

   Curt murmurings and half attempts from those

         Who’ve returned; the squall is up, sudden

            Shift, a writhing, break, and pours of rain

Swamping in confusion those dumb again who walk,

   Pulling hoods to heads where their necks have froze

         In stares as questions that are asking, “When?”

My children have been late out into the night,

   They’re under the low scudding clouds:

Could one say succor, help, and not feel right?

The storm moves, or there, do the people?

   The sight’s surely been a dream gone

         Like it was not, unheard, inviting some

            Interpretation, futile if only

            Found again in transitory flight.

James Engell is Gurney Professor of English and Professor of Comparative Literature, a member of the Committee on the Study of Religion, and a faculty associate of the Harvard University Center for the Environment. He has also directed dissertations in American Studies, as well as Romance Languages & Literatures (French).