Poem by Marianne Moore

What Are Years?

What is our innocence,
what is our guilt? All are
naked, none is safe. And whence
is courage: the unanswered question,
the resolute doubt,-
dumbly calling, deafly listening-that
in misfortune, even death,
entourages others
and in its defeat, stirs

the soul to be strong? He
sees deep and is glad, who
accedes to mortality
and in his imprisonment rises
upon himself as
the sea in a chasm, struggling to be
free and unable to be,
in its surrendering
finds its continuing.

So he who strongly feels,
behaves. The very bird,
grown taller as he sings, steels
his form straight up. Though he is captive,
his mighty singing
says, satisfaction is a lowly
thing, how pure a thing is joy.
This is mortality,
this is eternity.

1. You Are Like the Realistic Product of an Idealistic Search for Gold at the Foot of the Rainbow
2. Diligence Is to Magic as Progress Is to Flight
3. Reinforcements
4. Spencer's Ireland
5. Feed Me, Also, River God

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