(for James Gould Cozzens)

What will be done,

When I am gone,

For those I rewarded,

Punished, guarded?

None will remember me,

None will take care

In the days without number

Of the name I wore,

I who took care.

Now I am needless,

For those and after them,

Joyful and careless,

It will be the same

Aimlessness meaning well,

The day and the next day,

As long as possible,

Moving without meaning to.

I am so sure of

Their blood in confusion

I am sick with love

Of neighbor and nation.

But this old troubler,

Almost horizontal man,

Looking up to no one

Erect, and abler,

Has changed, as they say,

His mind. It is arranged

That to seek is to find.

There will be shivers

Under the sun, errors

In earnest believers,

And joys like terrors.

But leaving. I leave behind

My secret, which is;

Listen. Listen. A command,

As it always was.