The lines recur, the poem closes.
Once more the still-miraculous spring
drowns as green summer settles in.
Now from the hedges drop the roses,
and now before my donkey-nose is
nostalgic autumn beckoning
—the lines recur, the poem closes.
Once more the still miraculous spring,
summer and autumn… Man proposes…
winter’s carved boughs… and hark, how sing…
Man’s seasons, though, link in no ring
but join two points as Time disposes.
The lines recur, the poem closes.