XXII
I will not question the sunshine
that shines so pleasantly
on my face. I know the answer:
it will not last—for me.

Tomorrow it will rain, we say, and tomorrow is as clear as yesterday;
the mountains are green and yellow—clear of mist; 
and the sea, free of fog, is bluer than ever.
But we do not believe this sunshine;
it will not last, we say darkly:
an earthquake will tumble a wall upon our heads
or a thorn scratch a finger and we shall die.

XXIII
The cloudy afternoon is as pleasant
as silence. Who would think
one would ever have enough of sunshine?
A good epitaph, I suppose, would be
He liked the sunshine;
better still, He liked to walk.
And yet the dead, if it could speak, might say,
I had grown tired of walking,
yes, even of the sunshine.