Turn the page of the book and enter, marvelling
(“Jan van Eyck was here”), a soundless room,
The windows open, a little late sunlight, the mirror,
Two figures, a dog. Remember, five centuries after
The paint splashed on a sleeve, the flicker of brushes,
Steps unheard on the stair.
(I, also, wordless, was there.)
Wonder is music heard in the heart, is voiceless:
Lazarus having conversed with angels was dumb,
Brushing the questions aside with a gesture of dreaming,
Still dazzled with darkness, turning his face to the wall.
So Cortes returned perhaps to the Old World after—
So many years and his eyes still brimming with sea.
Without ovation of guns or trumpets and pennons,
Wonder is lastly in finding the Pole, with only
Amazement flowering in a waste of snow.