Mild men with cameras have caught

Shadow and light in such a knot

As fingers of the years may try,

But fail to loosen or untie.

The architects have built with hours.

They thrust time upward into towers.

They swear in steel that a held breath

Is a moment's dream reserved from death.

It was their grandsire stopped the clock,

And stayed to watch the princess sleep.

He taught them how to turn the lock

On any hour they wish to keep.

And I am mad that I expect

Photographer and architect,

Magicians of the living hour,

To take this picture, build this tower?

A tower crowned with a tall glass.

In this a light like sand will pass,

Down-slipping, sifting gently down,

To cover love and let it drown.

And the upper glass be filled with stars

That, fallen, leave the sky no scars,

Or none the next night will not heal.

Be filled with circumstance, and seal

The dearest day, by flowing bright

And unimportant, out of sight.

Time never tires at quick or slow.

Its one compulsion is to go.

The glass may fill, over and over,

With hopes of mother, thinker, lover,

Be filled like a tree with summer green,

Or a mind with words, and let them fall.

And in that picture will be seen

Time held at Now ... and lean,

Crumble and slide, with no recall.

Run slow at first, run faster, fast,

Down into silence and the Past.