ISSUE: Winter 1933
Now that I know in what brief, measured space
I must bid long farewell to loveliness
Bred of the sun’s bright wantoning, now no less
Than in my ampler years I can outface
That ghost of nothing which will take my place.
Since beauty is immortal: even I bless
The keen, concentered, transient consciousness
Which draws from this small now so vast a grace,
Finding rapt strangeness in familiar things
As of a spirit breathing also farewell
Through temporal forms, whereby its yearning wings
Are bound to earthly use till fades the spell
Of Time tripartite—while beyond all there rings
Majestic silence, man’s great passing-bell.
