If ever the search for a tranquil belief should end, The future might stop emerging out of the past, Out of what is full of us; yet the search And the future emerging out of us seem to be one.
And what's above is in the past As sure as all the angels are.
What's down below is in the past Like last night's crickets, far below.
The figures of the past go cloaked. They walk in mist and rain and snow And go, go slowly, but they go.
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