From a Provincial

Bent postcards come from Interlaken
In August, the tired emperor of the year;
On evening tables
Midges survey their planes of brief discovery
At a half-run. In Milton’s candle’s light
They so employed themselves.
Some die before the light is out.
Between darkness and darkness
Every small valley shows a familiar compass
Until like all before
Still most unknown, it vanishes.
In Cæsar’s camp was order,
The locus of their lives for some centurions
Encircled by forests of sombre France.
When day and life draw the horizons
Part of the strangeness is
Knowing the landscape.