Transitional Poem
53
27
With me, my lover makes The clock assert its chime:But when she goes, she takes The mainspring out of time.
Yet this time-wrecking charm Were better than love deadAnd its hollow alarum Hammered out on lead.
Why should I fear that Time Will superannuateThese workmen of my rhyme— Love, despair and hate?
Fleeing the herd, I came To a graveyard on a hill,And felt its mould proclaim The bone gregarious still.
Boredoms and agonies Work out the rhythm of bone:—No peace till creature his Creator has outgrown.
