Knowledge is lost and generous. Here she sits,

bracing her legs like pillars so they'll hold

the book she opens, peeking at Peace's old

wrinkled face, letting the jesters and the wits

encircle her, and watching the Great Red Spirit's

wooden-limbed presence loom on the books and gold,

the overwhelming fruits just now unrolled

from Progress's advancing chariots

as dazzled Natives hide their eyes. This room

spins on its murals, dragging her vision past

heads bowed toward books whose turning pages hide

truth with each tiny rustle. Teachers whom

our words depend on taunt her with their vast

ennobled pain; we read on by their side.

From Eve (First published in Paris Review)