Emerging here in a sudden annunciation of gifts, in poems of the mid-1930s Everson's individual voice can be perceived evolving from that of his master, Robinson Jeffers. Along with Jeffers the greatest of our poets of Western landscape, Everson from the first incorporates psyche into that stark landscape in a way very much his own -- while also purposefully echoing a bardic tradition projected from his Nordic roots:
The year dies fiercely: out of the north the beating storms, And wind
at the roof's edge, lightning swording the low sky: This year dying
like some traitored Norse stumbling under the deep wounds,
The furious steel smashing and swinging.
From the northern room I watch in the dusk,
And being unsocial regard the coming year coldly,
Suspicious of strangers, distrustful of innovations,
Reluctant to chance one way or another the unknown.
I leave this year as a man leaves wine,
Remembering the summer, bountiful, the good fall the months
mellow and full.
I sit in the northern room, in the dusk, the death of a year,
And watch it go down in thunder.
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