what triumphs we have known within the mesh
of failure, time can not scrape from our bones;
out of the pregnant dreams of our grass flesh
a fertile spring will issue from the stones
and flower like our songs in crimson mirth;
each hidden sense that death but borrows here
to bring about its own more perfect birth
with quickened breath will help new life appear
the now and here
the sunlit trees along the quiet street
enclose the afternoon on either side
their shadows dark and still the dozing heat
and there is no morning or night to hide
it might be anywhere the now and here
when the heart is simple and forgets the brain
in france on a river or a hill in spain
when life was peaceful and there was no fear
the reminiscent chord the piano strikes
returns us again to the slow learned ease
of oars on a boat and the long road hikes
the faces and voices like melodies
then old folks gladdened the spry basque danses
as student groups mingled to learn quaint ways
and families gathered for shore holidays
with poppies in the sun and vins des provences
in the city of the mind thoughts like these
graze quietly in distant valleys
as though time's gaps lay between a range
of sunlit afternoons that never change
swallows return