no idea.nHere, where I stand upon thenartist’s pointn(That’s reason) watching thenfrigid northnAnd world’s epistle side, what’snfaith to menBut art to see a single curvingnrownOf pillars close the mentalnhemisphere;nWhat’s faith, that is, but ournperimeternOf somethingntranscendental . . .nSome of this density of hypotactic elaborationnis not altogether Hardison’s ownnbut belongs to that baroque moment ofnthe 50’s when James Merrill and RichardnWilbur were astonishing us all withn”The Black Swan” and “Ceremony.” Itnis the intellectual play of which thensyntax is a mimesis, the conjuring of thenarchitectural, mathematical, and religiousnmonument into another dimension,nthat seems to me to carry Hardison’snown signature. The dazzle of thenflights of fancy and insight in Enteringnthe Maze (Oxford University Press,n1981) and Disappearing Through thenSkylight (Viking, 1989) is already establishednhere as the domain — orndemesne — of his fancy.nThe brilliant first chapter of Enteringnthe Maze that considers the philosophicalnclaims of the architecture ofnWashington, D.C., is figured here, andnif some of the verse later on in thenpiece, pushes too hard and tries toonstrenuously for its effects, that is, in anyoung man’s work, an admirable fault.nLater, in Pro Musica Antiqua, Hardi-nson was able to look at a mathematicalnsubject (as how few poets would evenndare to do) and quite breezily suggest:nPythagoras knew the world isnsymbols.nKnew beans are evil.nKnew (as all lovers know) sheetsnafter sleeping must bensmoothed.nMeasured the trembling ofnthose stringsnThat tie the mind to the skynIn halfs and demi-halfs until itnsings.nNever pick up what has fallenn(pass it by).nLeave no mark on the ashesn(you will not return).nTaste only bread that is shared.nAnd never, O never, look in anlighted mirror:nThose eyes will dazzle;nYou will die in that radiant netnif you come nearer.nThe square of two arms on firenForms the hypotenuse of desire:nBecome through others.nNever eat your heart (you werenmade for pleasure),nOr let swallows nest on yournroof.nOr being infinite, accept anmeasure.nIt is a breathtakingly assured piece, anplayful brooding on mensurability andnharmony and their moral and spiritualndimensions and limitations. It is whatnthe thinker of “Bernini’s Colonnade”nmight have figured out, but it goes farnChroniclesnAdvertise In. . .nA MAGAZINE OF AMERICAN CULTUREnEach month Chronicles offers a sophisticated, welleducatednaudience unavailable anywhere else. Ournexclusive advertising space is uncluttered andnsurrounded by award-winning graphics and design.nFor your free information packet please contact LeannnDobbs or Cathy Corson at 815/964-5054.n30/CHRONICLESnnnbeyond the eariy work in its grace andnlegerete.nThe sense of fun and even giddinessnof the extravagantly wrought turnnis part of Hardison’s personal treasure,nand he could do the Wallace Stevensnkind of capriole without ever seemingnprecieux, for, as with the best of Stevens,nthere is a touch of sadness to hisnebullience, a minor interval in thenharmony. Thus, in “In the Palazzo ofnPellucid”:nWherever he walked they talkednin whispersnFor his words were goblets ofnfinest crystalnEach engraved with his initial,nthe famous crested P.nThey were vessels of the winenof his meaningnSubtle vintages of red and whitenLaid down from the good yearsnof Pellucid. . . .nStevens, in Hartford, imagined an elsewhere,na fanciful Guatemala or lushnKey West, from which vantage pointsnthe dreary Connecticut city of smallnarms manufacture, actuarial tables, andnthe pettiness of state politics seemednreduced and amusing. Hardison is ablento suggest distance in other, more taxingnways (which Stevens does, too, at hisnbest). The end of the poem is much lessnblithe than what we might have expected:nYou, too, know Pellucid, passednby his house last night.nHeard the resplendent agonizingncry of strings.nMoved forward, moved by thatnthought.nInto the shadow of hisndesolation.nStill he paces the floor, waiting.nKnowing duty and the tears ofnthings:nCarthage to be destroyed, pietiesnserved.nAlso humble things:nThe gods of threshold and ofnhearthnTo be honored in a dark time.nDays he walks in the gallery.nNight in another place, alwaysnplaying.nIgnorant neighbors say,n”Pellucid is playing.n