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The body dies; the body's beauty lives. So evenings die, in their green going, A wave, interminably flowing.
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These are the small townsmen of death, A man and a woman, like two leaves...
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People fall out of windows, trees tumble down, Summer is changed to winter, the young grow old...
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Politic man ordained Imagination as the fateful sin. Grandmother and her basketful of pears Must be the crux for our compendia.
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with our bones We left much more, left what still is The look of things, left what we felt At what we saw.
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