With its deft rhymes and dazzlingrnturns of phrase, “Praise in Summer”rnseems at first glance a confection ofrnwords as airy and elusive as the poems ofrnWallace Stevens, who had a substantialrn(and perhaps unfortunate) influence onrnWilbur’s youthful work. Readers ofrnWilbur’s early books tended to regardrnhim, in the words of the Oxford Companionrnto American Literature, as “classic, urbane,rnoften witty, always intellectual.”rnHowever, they always avoided the alarmingrnword “Chrishan.”rn”Praise in Summer,” though superficiallvrnpagan, hints at the Christianrnthemes that would come to dominaternWilbur’s later work. After the exuberancernof his initial “I said,” the poet questionsrnthe premises of his own wordplay,rnand he implicitly criticizes fantastical poetr)’rnfor pen’erting sense while pursuingrnsensation. Wilbur wisely perceives thatrnsuch overreliance on novelty must, in thernend, blight the commonplace uponrnwhich novelty depends for contrast. Hernanticipates, with “uncreation,” all the nihilismrnof late-20th-century art.rnThroughout his career, Wilbur has returnedrnto the perplexit’ that undergirdsrn”Praise in Summer.” Sometimes he hasrncouched it in riddling language. “Shall Irnlove God for causing me to be?” (Waftingrnto Sleep, “The Proof). Or he hasrnplaced his questions in the mouth of arnsurrogate. “Is there some huge attention,rndo you think, which suffers us and is inviolate?”rn{The Mind-Reader, title poem).rnSuch inquiries abound in Wilbur’srnPulitzer Prize-winning New and CollectedrnPoems (1988). Perhaps they discomfitrnreaders, since the volume finds little shelfrnspace in comparison with the New Agernravings of Allen Ginsberg or the complaintsrnof Adrienne Rich.rnThe poems that make up Mayfliesrnhave taken another decade to accumulate.rnTheir sparsit)’ intensifies them, likernflowers in a xeric Alpine landscape. Laternin life, Wilbur has largely abandoned thernrhetorical question as a poetic device.rnReflecting on the pleasures and losses ofrneight decades, he speaks more plainly,rnless obscurely; yet the authorial habits ofrna lifetime remain, and he achieves manyrnof his aims by indirection. Sometimes herndons personae, as in this short poem, entitiedrn”Once”:rnThe old rock-climber cries out inrnhis sleep.rnDreaming without enthusiasmrnOf a great cliff immeasurably steep.rnOr of the sort of yawning chasm.rnNow far too deep.rnThat once, made safe by rashness,rnhe could leap.rnHere, Wilbur the moralist chidesrnWilbur the daredevil grammarian, who isrncaught once more by the illusory challengernof his own convoluted conceit.rn”The Gambler” and “Bonds” are otherrncautionary character sketches which mayrncontain elements of self-admonition.rnSeveral of the translations also affordrnWilbur opportunities to examine himselfrnfrom odd vantages, although the particularrnpoems were suggested to him byrnfriends who knew his inclinations, ratherrnthan by any deliberate rummagesrnthrough the work of foreign poets.rnWilbur also toys with riddles and transformations.rnAt one extreme, his playfulnessrnhas given rise to whole books of children’srnverse such as The DisappearingrnAlphabet. At the other, it animates therntranslations from Dante’s Inferno andrnMoliere’s Amphytrion, which close thernnew collection of poetr’. Midway betweenrnthese extremes, we find “Crow’srnNests,” a play on literal and figurativernsenses of the title phrase, in which treesrnare seen as the masts of galleons. Wilburrnhas taken a lifelong interest in the wayrnhuman senses construct the perceivedrnworld (the principal topic of “A Digression”)rnand in all manner of transmutationsrnthat trick the mind.rnThough very much a moralist andrnmetaphysician-manque, Wilbur neverrnstrays from the particular and phenomenal.rnHe does not lapse into mere philosophizing,rnthe way Stevens did in his laterrnwork, hi larger poems such as “Icons”rnand “Fabrications,” Wilbur contemplatesrnartifice, artifact, and artificer; yetrnhe eschews abstract language when hernaddresses these potentially numbing subjects.rnInstead, he communicates throughrnstartling juxtapositions of imagery. Considerrnthe final stanzas of “Fabrications”:rnWitness this ancient maprnWhere so much blank and namelessnessrnsurroundrnA little mushroom-clump of coastalrntowersrnIn which we may infer civility,rnA harbor-full of spra}’,rnAnd all those loves which hint ofrnlove itself.rnImagining too a pillar at whose toprnA spider’s web upholds the architrave.rnThe astounding conclusion refersrnback to a spider web at the poem’s start,rnbut it extends the metaphor to cathedralrnscale, depicting the universe as Creation,rnbound in an unseen silk of causality andrnintent. This trick of aligning microcosmrnand macrocosm, human and divine, is arnfavorite device by which Wilbur attemptsrnto lift himself and his readers toward arntranscendent consciousness. Though itrnis not spoken directly, and thoughrnWilbur does not capitalize the phrasern”love itself,” we can certainly infer, behindrnthe “civilitv'” of the poem and its calculatedrnform, a kind of prayer.rnA keen observer of plants, mites,rnmidges, and stars, Wilbur is a descriptivernpoet nonpareil; yet he never idealizesrnthe natural world. Instead, he unitesrnpoignancy with asperity, a rare combinationrnin our sentimental culture. In thernopening poem of Mayflies, “A BarredrnOwl,” he gazes unflinchingly at creaturerncruelty while reassuring a child against arnnight terror. One use of vords is to “domesticaterna fear.” This is certainly part ofrnthe poet’s calling; for many believers, itrnmay also be the primary purpose of religion.rnBut wonder outweighs fear inrnWilbur’s universe, and his poems arernmost profound when most awestruck. Inrnthe title poem of Mayflies, Wilbur definesrnmore distinctly that obscure call hernheard so long ago. He answers the rhetoricalrnquestions he posed as a young man,rnas he sets a final challenge for his old age.rnWe can only hope that Wilbur is grantedrnanother decade, and another book asrnfine as Mayflies. Whether or not he enjoysrnsuch good fortune, he has fulfilledrnhis promise as our foremost religious poetrnby offering a polite but firm rebuke tornthe intellectual vices of our time:rnIn somber forest, when the sun wasrnlow,rnI saw from unseen pools a mist ofrnfliesrnIn their quadrillions risernAnd animate a ragged patch ofrnglowrnWith sudden glittering—as when arncrowdrnOf stars appearrnThrough a brief gap in black andrndriven cloud.rnOne arc of their great round-dancernshowing clear.rnIt was no muddled swarm I witnessed,rnforrn28/CHRONICLESrnrnrn