This is the answer to all centuries
That spawn new life and grind it into dust.
This is the solved equation of the heart
Bound in arrogance between fettering rust
And pure white rage of Spring’s late snow
When sap is high, when tender buds first start.
There are no final lines to mark the end
Of stern design in earth’s geometry.
Firm angles crash, true circles wilt and fail
Before the whirling mass of all infinity.
Love that has paled and died in weary hope
Will rise from the dust to reenact the tale.
From the Mountain, From the Valley: New and Collected Poems
By James Still