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.