AT BALZAC’S MONUMENT

       I turned the corner. At my approach,

       Balzac, you rose before me like a ghost

       of sleepless conscience—in a slow

       up-pouring of volcanic force

       arrested in the stillness of this place

       to stand as if blasted by God’s eye of wrath

       and weathered into desert stone

       like Lot’s wife at her turning back

       toward the destruction of her city.

       I stopped, astounded by

       your gouged eyes, staring forever,

       the stumps of your severed hands—
       signs of the immortal martyrdom

       awarded by an implacable art

       for having gazed too long at the obscene

       spectacle of our stupidity.

       —Thus the sentence. But on whom,

       you or us, has the judgment come?

       The answer, if there is one, bides

       within the sunlight and torrential

       silence that clothe you.

       And in your keeping still your vigil

       over this old French city of small souls.

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       Photo from   bluffton .edu/~sullivanm/rodin/balzac.html