(for Robert Frost)

That sweet fire in the veins, while everywhere 
The Harpies' filth keeps raining down, the young 
Make love, make war, make music: the common tongue 
Of private wounds, of the outrage that they share, 
Or sing in desperate mockery of despair. 

Is there a song left, then, for aged voices? 
They are worse than cracked: half throttled by the thumbs 
Of hard self-knowledge. To the old, dawn comes 
With ache of loss, with cold absence of choices. 
What heart, waking to this, drumming assent, rejoices? 

Traffic rousing, gulls' cries, or cock crow, score 
The body's ignominy, the mind's delays; 
Till the Enigma, in a wandering phrase, 
Offers a strain never audible before: 
Immense music beyond a closing door.