What is it that takes So long to appear before you When you’re down, down, down? You spend forever waiting For some sign of it Before you're goners When the herald’s already Winging it to the next town.
So sick of hearing Of the death Of this unacknowledged Legislator of the world And of that, I cannot
But think in these mean times How many have come before And how many are yet to come And how many after that— A distressing, unceasing line
Of well-meaning poets Dead or alive or yet to be Strung out and scrawling across An indifferent, chaotic universe— It doesn’t get much better than that.
It’s true, Narcissus— Even the reeds up- Right in the water look To be bending over For a closer look; But look again— Is it going To be the same Stream tomorrow?