Some people cannot endure

Looking down from the parapet atop the Empire State

Or the Statue of Liberty—they go limp, insecure,

The vertiginous height hums to their numbered bones

Some homily on Fate;

Neither virtue past nor vow to be good atones

To the queasy stomach, the quick,

Involuntary softening of the bowels.

“What goes up must come down,” it hums: the ultimate, sick

Joke of Fortuna. The spine, the world vibrates

With terse, ruthless avowals

From “The Life of More,” “A Mirror For Magistrates”.

And there are heights of spirit.

And one of these is love. From way up here,

I observe the puny view, without much merit,

Of all my days. High on the house are nailed

Banners of pride and fear.

And that small wood to the west, the girls I have failed.

It is, on the whole, rather glum:

The cyclone fence, the tar-stained railroad ties,

With, now and again, surprising the viewer, some

Garden of selflessness or effort. And, as I must,

I acknowledge on this high rise

The ancient metaphysical distrust.

But candor is not enough,

Nor is it enough to say that I don’t deserve

Your gentle, dazzling love, or to be in love.

That goddess is remorseless, watching us rise

In all our ignorant nerve,

And when we have reached the top, putting us wise.

My dear, in spite of this,

And the moralized landscape down there below,

Neither of which might seem the ground for bliss,

Know that I love you, know that you are most dear

To one who seeks to know

How, for your sake, to confront his pride and fear.