Where the sea gulls sleep or indeed where they fly <br />Is a place of different traffic. Although I <br />Consider the fishing bay (where I see them dip and curve <br />And purely glide) a place that weakens the nerve <br />Of will, and closes my eyes, as they should not be <br />(They should burn like the street-light all night quietly, <br />So that whatever is present will be known to me), <br />Nevertheless the gulls and the imagination <br />Of where they sleep, which comes to creation <br />In strict shape and color, from their dallying <br />Their wings slowly, and suddenly rallying <br />Over, up, down the arabesque of descent, <br />Is an old act enacted, my fabulous intent <br />When I skated, afraid of policemen, five years old, <br />In the winter sunset, sorrowful and cold, <br />Hardly attained to thought, but old enough to know <br />Such grace, so self-contained, was the best escape to know.<br /><br />Delmore Schwartz<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-ballet-of-the-fifth-year/
