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Elizabeth Bishop - Anaphora
Work rating: Low

Each day with so much ceremony
 begins, with birds, with bells,
 with whistles from a factory;
 such white-gold skies our eyes
 first open on, such brilliant walls
 that for a moment we wonder
 "Where is the music coming from, the energy?
 The day was meant for what ineffable creature
 we must have missed?" Oh promptly he
 appears and takes his earthly nature
   instantly, instantly falls
   victim of long intrigue,
   assuming memory and mortal
   mortal fatigue.

 More slowly falling into sight
 and showering into stippled faces,
 darkening, condensing all his light;
 in spite of all the dreaming
 squandered upon him with that look,
 suffers our uses and abuses,
 sinks through the drift of bodies,
 sinks through the drift of vlasses
 to evening to the beggar in the park
 who, weary, without lamp or book
   prepares stupendous studies:
   the fiery event
   of every day in endless
   endless assent.
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