Useless pity and fondness unreturned

befooled me so in a dream, I’m glad

to open my eyes, in this camera obscura

with its eye of fire and shadow-trees upside down,

and tell myself the best isn’t past.

The south wind has filled the dim space

with African air. Soon it will bring,

not yet that yellow trumpet-shout,

but, blended by distance, children’s voices

like a harmony of Debussy’s.—Not past, no.

And this found, or given, may I let go the rest.

The rest already taken! So that I’d learn

the worth of this, of a true mind?

Well, I do know it. May I realize it, then,

and let the dead bury their dead.

updated by @americymru: 11/28/17 04:30:21PM