Thirty years time fostered me,
and let me grow beneath its shroud
that hindered day’s soft canopy
with dark and heaven-stealing cloud.
(O love, if I appear too loud
blame not my mazed, thought-bragging schemes
but blame the stars, that they allowed
dark night to spring its trap of dreams.)

Thirty years time prospered me,
and let the springy heather grow
to outwit seeming poverty,
the dark unhopeful soil, the snow.
(O love, if I have far to go
to reach those angel-coloured blooms
held in the hand of God – I know
that field, for me, starts in our rooms.)

Thirty years time boarded me,
and let the stinging weather in
that made the floor iron-hard. The sea
time forges in, still echoes Win.
(O love, when, when will I begin
to lose the long race – walk on land?
To act in true kind, from within,
the heart dictating to the hand?)

Thirty years time goaded me,
and now, at once, it says no more.
I live in the discovery
of time’s defeat. (Dear love, before
I reach that unhorizoned shore,
may this sky-burn, flower-touch, sea-bite
of love, rage fully, and explore
my heart. And so may my hand write.)

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