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And how many times can we say
and how many ways can we say
this life's ephemeral?
That the day
is dying even as we list
its beauties to remember
(may none be missed!)
on a fresh page,
under its rare numeral
in the cycle of days? – Flimsy, too, is paper. This twenty-ninth is nearly over.
Only the afterglow
of late sun bathes
the pale stone of that convent steeple
seen through distant bare trees.
It is fading as I look.
Soon it will be dark. This day has leapt. Not for another four
years will there come
again one of its number. |
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