Читать книгу A Well of Wonder - Clyde S. Kilby - Страница 4

It is a time when apples ripen,

friendships thicken,

maples kindle a fall fire

west of Blanchard. Through the halls

scholars and students quicken

at a familiar voice,

and on the corner of Washington and Jefferson

squirrels and sparrows rejoice

because you’re home. Like a hobbit

come back to the Shire

you’re home again, our friend,

bringing Martha with you, and sunflower

seeds, a sackful of nuts, three score

years and ten worth of wisdom, under

your arm—letters and Lewis-lore—

your mind a well of wonder.

It was your mind, your inner eye, that

saw it long before it happened—

the hierarchy of shelves

dusted obliquely by the late sun

behind old glass in the narrow room once occupied

by a minority of one

and now inhabited by Inklings and Elves.

Like a gardener raking grass,

piling the bright and varied leaves,

from far you gathered treasure, sheaves

of manuscripts, papers ornamented

with the rich, crabbed, English script,

searched out the volumes

burnished and precious with

scholarship and age—

“fact shrunk to truth” speaking

from every page.

Then you swung open for us all

the wardrobe door,

pushed us farther up and farther in

(accompanied by some favorite talking beast)

to Middle-earth, Narnia, and the Utter East.

In there, for us to re-explore,

is perfect Perelandra.

Treebeard is growing up the cornered wall.

In the Deep Space behind the rows of books

eldila elude us; Curdie

encounters Mr. Bultitude the bear.

There in that room

we smell the past, untainted by decay or death

but fragrant, for in there

the mallorns bloom

and all the blessed air

is warm with Aslan’s breath.

—Luci Shaw