“Now that the gods had botched the fortunes of Asia,
“And Priam’s people of little guilt lay rotting
“In hideous postures in the wreck of Troy,
“The divine omens commanded us into exile
“In far-off regions, barbarous and waste.”
Probity botches to build. The miller’s ugly
Offspring was taught the North not as the North:
In Leyden his master Swanenburgh the burglar,
In Amsterdam his master Lastman the burglar,
Sold him a stolen world, the laurel alleys
And skies of enamel and my, such ladies of Venice.
Probity botched it. Alone, exile at home,
He crouched all day by the window in the millhouse,
Watching the wind, the tumbling or tremulous daylight;
Studied a fraying robe in a scrap of mirror,
Gold-bronze or gold-brown, tones of a cello in half-lights
Trembling like music; stared at a silver helm
That shone out of shadow as if creating light,
As if the light welled up from within the metal:
Stared thus and painted, building from the beginning.
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