Hold poignance in your hand. The early thaws Will stir and shiver exiled clay no more, And where these windless trees forever pause In petrifaction, birds will never pour Their little brooklet waterfalls of song. Pity this Pan incarnate whose young feet Relinquished dancing; these sad sheep that long For greener pastures; this atrophic wheat. Let loveliness arrested teach your soul Beauty of passage, exigence of death. This pastoral medallion in relief Tells a most ancient weariness and grief. Find here the precious heritage of breath, Love, in an empty terra-cotta bowl. |