Again before our ignorant eyes
The beautiful moment blooms and dies.

Here is a mystery as old
As the rock moving under the sands.
We are but children holding hands.
Holding hands, what do we hold?
What do we crush, whose seeds will flower
Beyond the endless arid Hour?
What do we hush, whose echoes chime
Down the long star-drifts of bleak Time?
What can we do but tremble still
And kiss, and call the kiss a kiss,
Having no eloquence for this
Eternity we touch and kill?