Even as children they were late sleepers,
preferring their dreams, even when quick with monsters,
to the world with all its breakable toys,
its compacts with the dying.
From the stretched arms of whitered trees
they turned, fearing contagion of the mortal,
and even under the plums of summer
drifted like winter moons.
Secret, unfriendly, pale, possessed
of the one wish, the thirst for mere survival,
they came, as all extremists do
in time, to a sort of grandeur:
now, to they Balkans battlements
above the vulgar town of their first lives,
they rise at the moon’s rising. Strange
that their utter self-concern
should, in the end, have left them selfless:
mirrors fail to perceive them as they float
trough the great hall and up the staircase;
nor are the cobwebs broken.
Into the pallid night emerging,
wrapped in their flapping capes, routinely maddened
by a wolf’s cry, they stand for a moment
stoking the mind’s eye.
With lewd thoughts of the pressed flowers
and bric-a-brac of rooms with something to lose,
of love-dismembered dolls, and children
buried in quiet sleep.
Then they are off in a negative frenzy,
their black shapes cropped into sudden bats
that swarm, burst, and are gone. Thinking
of a thrush cold in the leaves.
Who has sung his few summers truly,
or an old scholar resting his eyes at last,
we cannot be much impressed with vampires,
colorful though they are;
nevertheless, their pain is real,
and requires our pity. Think how sad it must be
to thirst always for a scorned elixir,
the salt quotidian blood
which, if mistrusted, has no savor;
to prey on life forever and not possess it,
as rock-hollows, tide after tide,
glassily strand the sea.
Richard Wilbur. USA (1921-2017)