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

remembered music

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.