Member-only story
i.m. John Donne 1572 (London) — 1631 (London)
Such airy valedictions cannot span this bridge in time
What’s mine is yours, what’s yours is very definitely mine.
We both can hear the quiet roar of our own new found land
As time drifts to a stop and as we focus near and far
We no longer stand amazed at the hollow rancour of public life
And have no more time for the mere indulgences of strife.
We look too much upon these empty places, the sands
That have run out, sans mistress, husband, lover, wife.
Faces that bloomed at noontide fade like a plangent song
Sung as we leave the stage with ne’er a whisper of regret
To walk into eternity with all the grace the less deceived
Can muster, as leaves turn golden at this late turning of the year.
And now those twin compass points of greed and fear draw near
Then, quite suddenly disappear, a point upon a circle, a tear upon a face.
