This poem, written by Czeslaw Milosz in 1968 and translated by Lillian Vallee and himself, is on page 240-41 of Czeslaw Milosz: New and Collected Poems, 1931-2001, a 776 page book I bought on the weekend. Though twenty translators brought these poems to English, Czeslaw Milosz and Robert Hass translated the majority.
I was pointed to the work of Robert Hass a few years ago. I have two of his poetry collections, Human Wishes (the prose poems in Human Wishes never fail to stir me; every time my mind swirls in their tone) and Sun Under Wood, as well as Twentieth Century Pleasures, his essays on poetry, all three listing the six or seven books by Milosz that he has translated. Why, then, has it taken me so long to buy a Milosz book?
Back to Ars Poetica? I mention this poem in particular because I just listened to John MacKenzie read it. Then I read his thoughts on it. Needless to say, I'm now thinking about it.