Lowell talks with his head to one side, his wrists limp,

Hands an awkward grace, bad boy and a saint in his voice.

Robert Lowell is a gentle genius, maddened example to poets,

Modern-minded greatly in trouble with history, tuned so

That he read himself on his own and all family trees.

I watch his generation's poets on platforms, and see him,

Hear him, in their delivery. But he is his own surprise.

Cal, we call him, supposed not to talk, like Coolidge,

But this one talks outrageous honesty, improbable insight,

In a high Boston voice I cannot turn from one word of.

Why we all learn from him, what we all learn from him,

Is the mystery of the word brought up from the dark

Into blaze, very Lowell, very New England translated.

Maybe I scare and worship too quick, but Lowell scares me,

His justice, his patience, his wild plain ruthless sanity.