The Wild Geese
Horseback on Sunday morning,~ Wendell Berry ~
harvest over, we taste persimmon
and wild grape, sharp sweet
of summer's end. In time's maze
over the fall fields, we name names
that went west from here, names
that rest on graves. We open
a persimmon seed to find the tree
that stands in promise,
pale, in the seed's marrow.
Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear,
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye
clear. What we need is here.
(Collected Poems 1957-1982)
Na Géanna Fiáine
Ar muin capaill maidin Domhnaigh,
an fómhar istigh, blaisimid de na dátphlumaí
is de na caora fíniúna fiáine, géar, milis,
is an samhradh thart. I gcathair ghríobháin an ama
thar ghoirt an fhómhair anonn, ainmnímid na hainmneacha
a chuaigh siar, ainmneacha ina luí
ar leaca uaighe. Osclaímid síol
dátphluma is cad atá ann ach crann
ina gheallúint, mílítheach i smior an tsíl.
Nochtann géanna go hard os ár gcionn.
Gabhann tharainn, an spéir á hiamh. Tréigean,
sa ghrá abair nó sa suan, a choinníonn
ar an ród iad, glé,
sa chreideamh ársa: tá a bhfuil uainn
anseo. Agus guímid ní ar mhaithe
le domhan nua ná neamh, ach a bheith
ciúin sa chroí agus glé
sa tsúil. Tá a bhfuil uainn anseo.
