Poetry Prayer #23

Honestly, I chose this one for the last line.

Late August on the Lido  

by John Hollander

To lie on these beaches for another summer

Would not become them at all,

And yet the water and her sands will suffer

When, in the fall,

These golden children will be taken from her.

It is not the gold they bring: enough of that

Has shone in the water for ages

And in the bright theater of Venice at their backs;

But the final stages

Of all those afternoons when they played and sat

And waited for a beckoning wind to blow them

Back over the water again

Are scenes most necessary to this ocean.

What actors then

Will play when these disperse from the sand below them?

All this over until, perhaps, next spring;

This last afternoon must be pleasing.

Europe, Europe is over, but they lie here still,

While the wind, increasing,

Sands teeth, sands eyes, sands taste, sands everything.

Late August on the Lido

  by John Hollander
To lie on these beaches for another summer
Would not become them at all,
And yet the water and her sands will suffer
When, in the fall,
These golden children will be taken from her.

It is not the gold they bring: enough of that
Has shone in the water for ages
And in the bright theater of Venice at their backs;
But the final stages
Of all those afternoons when they played and sat

And waited for a beckoning wind to blow them
Back over the water again
Are scenes most necessary to this ocean.
What actors then
Will play when these disperse from the sand below them?

All this over until, perhaps, next spring;
This last afternoon must be pleasing.
Europe, Europe is over, but they lie here still,
While the wind, increasing,
Sands teeth, sands eyes, sands taste, sands everything. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/23671#sthash.1Q8N4yYn.dpuf

Late August on the Lido

  by John Hollander
To lie on these beaches for another summer
Would not become them at all,
And yet the water and her sands will suffer
When, in the fall,
These golden children will be taken from her.

It is not the gold they bring: enough of that
Has shone in the water for ages
And in the bright theater of Venice at their backs;
But the final stages
Of all those afternoons when they played and sat

And waited for a beckoning wind to blow them
Back over the water again
Are scenes most necessary to this ocean.
What actors then
Will play when these disperse from the sand below them?

All this over until, perhaps, next spring;
This last afternoon must be pleasing.
Europe, Europe is over, but they lie here still,
While the wind, increasing,
Sands teeth, sands eyes, sands taste, sands everything. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/23671#sthash.1Q8N4yYn.dpuf

Late August on the Lido

  by John Hollander
To lie on these beaches for another summer
Would not become them at all,
And yet the water and her sands will suffer
When, in the fall,
These golden children will be taken from her.

It is not the gold they bring: enough of that
Has shone in the water for ages
And in the bright theater of Venice at their backs;
But the final stages
Of all those afternoons when they played and sat

And waited for a beckoning wind to blow them
Back over the water again
Are scenes most necessary to this ocean.
What actors then
Will play when these disperse from the sand below them?

All this over until, perhaps, next spring;
This last afternoon must be pleasing.
Europe, Europe is over, but they lie here still,
While the wind, increasing,
Sands teeth, sands eyes, sands taste, sands everything. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/23671#sthash.1Q8N4yYn.dpuf

Late August on the Lido

  by John Hollander
To lie on these beaches for another summer
Would not become them at all,
And yet the water and her sands will suffer
When, in the fall,
These golden children will be taken from her.

It is not the gold they bring: enough of that
Has shone in the water for ages
And in the bright theater of Venice at their backs;
But the final stages
Of all those afternoons when they played and sat

And waited for a beckoning wind to blow them
Back over the water again
Are scenes most necessary to this ocean.
What actors then
Will play when these disperse from the sand below them?

All this over until, perhaps, next spring;
This last afternoon must be pleasing.
Europe, Europe is over, but they lie here still,
While the wind, increasing,
Sands teeth, sands eyes, sands taste, sands everything. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/23671#sthash.1Q8N4yYn.dpuf