Now, when there is less time than ever,
Every day less time,
I do have the greatest need for patience.
Not to be rushed by thawing, cracking ice
Into a hasty figure.
Not to require daffodils before spring
But accept each spring as another golden handshake.
Not to be misled by fatuous fires
Into a sanctuary clemmed and de-consecrated.
Never irked that this line has no fancy
Departure lounge for V.I.P.s.
Least of all to lose faith in the experience,
The mortal experiment
To which at birth I was committed.
Those three provincials, the dear sisters whom
Abrupt catastrophe and slow dry-rot,
Gutting their hearts of youth, condemn to what
Cheerless routines and seasons yet may come –
Would you not say that they were better dead
Than haunted by their sweet illusion’s ghost,
Love ground down to irritable dust,
The ideal city still unvisited?
Not so their curtain speech: ‘We must go on,
And we must work. Our sufferings will grow.
Peace and joy for coming generations.’
Was it illusion’s desperate last throw?
At least those heroines showed that nothing can
Become the mortal heart like trust and patience.