I seldom dream of any dreams
Best or bad; I make no boast
Of visions to voice-bearers.

The words of wonder that wind through ages
Scribed into stone and standing on leaves that
Fell from no tree–no great feat, that–
March in their masses as must well be done
While I, not worthy, watch them pass by
Saluting those soldiers, sentinels of lore,
Yearning for years to yoke myself to them.

They walk through the world, while I
Remain here, rooted. They rove
And carry their contents, commanding attention,
Gift I, too, gave them, and gladly I did,
Hurt that they heeded no hope that I held.
They pass on, proceeding, a parade through ages,
Trudging through ticker-tape, teasing the mind
With wonder of what might have been, were things otherwise.

No axle-span asks me what I would offer,
Bespeaks its forbearance, bids me be patient
In dreams in the darkness, when my lights are dimmed.
No gold or gemstones glitter before me
In inward eye-work, no eager wood
Speaks of its strength and surrender to will
Of the fruit that it, fertile, felt compelled to avenge.
No such man am I to have such a vision
And the words of wonder that persist in the world,
Beauty in bard-craft, betray all the changes
From their time to this, as might well be thought.

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