Word and time revolve like money,
forget the dream of Eden
or a good, long, unpolitical cry,
word grips a pocket watch, time its knife
and no one gets home so clean
as when he left—no wonder
we can’t find luckier selves—
like Auden we should have known
Faery Queens are beyond our means.
Some justly plead with both,
standing at the mantle
of winter and hearth, low murmur,
let me have another ten or twenty.
Giver of life, translate for me
A spindrift, twilit word of snow
If nothing more I should know.