The vague sea thuds against the marble cliffs
And from their fragments age-long grinds
Pebbles like flowers.
Or the vague weather wanders in the fields,
And up spring flowers with coloured buds
Like marble pebbles.
The beauty of the flowers is Time, death-grieved;
The pebbles’ beauty too is Time,
Life-wearied.
It is easy to admire a blowing flower
Or a smooth pebble flower-like freaked
By Time and vagueness.
Time is Time’s ease and the sweet oil that coaxes
All obstinate locks and rusty hinges
To loving-kindness.
And am I proof against that lovesome pair,
Old age and childhood, twins in Time,
In sorrowful vagueness?
And will I not pretend the accustomed thanks:
Humouring age with filial flowers,
Childhood with pebbles?
