– 57 –

Limitation

Time, tacit wardress of our earthly paradise,
Is it well done that you speak no word ever of wider fields?
Howbeit, you have not cognizance, for more than us your prisoners,
Time, are you bonded slave.

But the birds are commissioned to remit messages;
But every tree a whispering, mysterious harp holds;
The sea has a voice, rivers are everywhere melodious,
And there are certain earth-mounds,
There are old mountain hollows charged with oracles…
Sometimes, while the wind changes, we may hear sounds
We have waited for, our hearts being tuned secretly
To ultramundane stave.
They were frighted, heard they no imperial
Still voice hidden in the breeze
Shall say to mandatary Time, obsequious:
Hand me the keys.

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