Is that you, Willie? You sound muffled,
like you’re tangled in the bedclothes.
You must come closer and whisper.
Father tells me I’ve already wept
too much; if he catches us he’ll send me
to the asylum. But tell me,
how should I mourn you? I still glimpse you
in the sun’s glint on the brass knocker.
The oak tree creaks in wind–your boots
on the porch floor, coming in
from the river, home for supper.
It’s not you, only the whisper of you,
like the quietness of books. I envy
your Father the preoccupation of work.
I know you visit him. He calls them “dreams”
when you sit beside him on the train
clasp his hand in the theatre.
I’ve kept the flowers from your coffin
pressed in our Bible. Come here, closer
to the light, let me see once more
your sweet face. I won’t ask to hold you,
I know I can’t, won’t ask you what it’s like,
can’t bear the immensity. My grief,
will it be eternal? You smile.
I know you can’t stay. Look at you!
Exactly as I remember, your face
like a saint. Tomorrow I’ll light dusk’s
candle again, William, William.

This a triumph of tone and rhythm that easily survives multiple readings. The poem sustains the drama of its opening question well, shifting confidently between narrative and detail. It is a touch more perfect than "Winterset," but came second only because it didn't have the same poetic originality. --Bryan Appleyard