In the seeming measureless silence 
Of solitude and the distant stars, 
Here never can be reassuring words, 
If they are thought, they never reach our lips 
As if all the spring-bright birds were 
Suddenly song-less, then mutely slip 
Away in some apocalyptic sunset.
 
We are profoundly alone in the best
Of company and the happy time 
We know only too well cannot last long— 
Shared good wine cannot prolong occasion, 
Old doors cannot prevent the trespass of 
Our childhood’s most persistent nightmares 
Turning bare branches into menacing arms.