We may have been coming up a misty spring
a summer of long fire, some autumn
When those mountains over there were first thrown up
to make a purple windrow,
but we needn’t talk of the breaking down of a skull or blossom,
or whether the hair lives longer than the heart,
or how improbable it always was that we should ever walk the trail together
This is no night for winding clocks,
I love you.