Martin Robertson

Now and Then


A word, a gust

of wind, and our delightful plan is dust.

The loved, the long worked-over, the lived through,

the too good to be true,

is nothing, and we bear

self-pitying now our anger and despair,

and like the nephews of a poisoned Pope

relinquish every hope.

Oh plan no more the exact, unreal scheme,

no more live by the dream,

the light that lies and blinds.

Open your eyes, and yet may come to pass

your unschemed hope, as the new morning finds

dew on the grass.