Poem

The smiles of the bathers fade as they leave the water,
And the lover feels sadness fall as it ends, as he leaves his love.
The scholar, closing his book as the midnight clocks strike, is hollow and old;
The pilot’s relief on landing is no release.

These perfect and private things, walling us in, have imperfect and public endings—
Water and wind and flight, remembered words and the act of love
Are but interruptions. And the world, like a beast, impatient and quick,
Waits only for those that are dead. No death for you. You are involved.