For Ill or Good

Now I am in my reading chair
In whose slow rocking I encroach
Upon the rings of Saturn and the oaks
Of Mamre where in pillared memory
They do the Parthenon of Mind sustain
So deeply rooted they. Pattern of herringbone,
This seat a freckled black and brown, and a hot cup
Of that beverage frenzied Balzac;
Five-hundred year old verses in my lap
Translate the susurrations of a man
Five-hundred years a corpse into my lungs.
I’ve not the learning of the ancient dons,
But in the diaries of Yuan Mei
Or half-ironic prayers of Yeats,
I feel the gift of their inheritance
Wisdom for ill or good.