“
No matter what we are, and what we sing,Time finds a withered leaf in every laurel
— Edwin Arlington Robinson
No matter what we are, and what we sing,Time finds a withered leaf in every laurel
Oh for a poet - for a beacon bright
I shall have more to say when I am dead.
Your Dollar is your only Word,To look before you or behind.
A thousand golden sheaves were lying there,Might rise from where they slept and go away.
Are we no greater than the noise we makeWill have it so?
And thus we all are nighing
And thus we all are nighing
