Jack Gilbert
.
What do they say each new morning
in Heaven? They would
weary of one always
singing how green the
green trees are in
Paradise.
Surely it would seem convention
and affectation
to rejoice every time
Helen went by, since
she would have gone
daily by.
What can I say then each time
your whiteness glimmers
and fashions in the night?
If each time your voice
opens so near
in that dark
new? What can I say each morning
after that you will
believe? But there is this
stubborn provincial
singing in me,
O, each time.
.
