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