Voices all of summer and of fall tell in bright
leaves the brevity of life. I know
your tale, knew with my first good
breath, that on another day was death.
At first I wanted to go far, to use up all
the moments that there are, but no
traveler I—with ears that listen
for instead of to, long for
not for new; eyes that see
surface only, and that bent under
the colored water of opinion; hands
that know just what they have felt before.
While I stood wondering at the wideness of the
world—not knowing where to start that
I might reach—one said, rather stand
still: within, the endless road, the topless hill.