You hold it, and sing with delight,
And your mother, for our own delight,
Picks one of the blue flowers there,
To put in your yellow hair.
That done, we go on our way
Up the hill, toward the end of the day.
But the season has thinned out.
At the bay-edge below, the shout
Of a late bather reaches our ear,
But it comes to the vineyard here
By more than distance thinned.
The bay is in shadow, the wind
Nags the shore to white.
The mountain prepares the night.
By the vineyard we have found
No bloom worthily white,
And the few that we have found
Not disintegrated to the ground
Are by season and sea-salt browned.
We give the best one to you.
It is ruined, but will have to do.
Somewhat better the blue blossoms fare.
We find one for your hair,
And you sing as though human need
Were not for perfection. We proceed
Past floss-borne or sloughed-off seed,
Past curled leaf and dry pod,
And the blue blossom will nod
With your head's drowsy gold nod.
Let all seasons pace their power,
As
this has to this hour.
Let season and season devise
Their possibilities.
Let the future re-assess
All past joy, and past distress,
Till we know Time's deep intent
