If the moment could be brought back,
Clicks through the trees
The typewriter speaking
Those summer days of blue-green silence
Struck by the little bells
And the pleasure of the solitude of the trees,
Thinking through the days
The struck delicate messages
In the time of thoughttransferences
When shadow was sun, sun was shadow,
The eleemosynary appearance of endlessness
The surround of wood and water
of birds flying and breeze passing
By the pool and the statues and the urn
Wood-toned smoke, haze off the hayfields
There in the time that was whole and hardy
While dreams were infallible indices
of further dreams of dreams
In the shimmer of noon the serving
of summer in lightest afternoon
If the moment could be brought back
It would be the truth
Of the artist writing history
But he is dead, it is late, and I write
Memory of Williams writing Paterson.