The Footpath Down To The Well Is

The Armful For Every Parcel I Stoop Down To Seize I Lose Some Other Off My Arms And Knees, And The Whole Pile Is Slipping, Bottles, Buns, Extremes Too Hard To Comprehend At. Once Yet Nothing I Should Care To Leave Behind. With All I Have To Hold With Hand And Mind And Heart, If Need Be, I Will Do My Best. To Keep Their Building Balanced At My Breast. I Crouch Down To Prevent Them As They Fall; Then Sit Down In The Middle Of Them All. I Had To Drop The Armful In The Road And Try To Stack Them In A Better Load.

Like A Piece Of Ice On A Hot Stove The Poem Must Ride On Its Own Melting.

Leaves And Bark, Leaves And Bark, To Lean Against And Hear In The Dark. Petals I May Have Once Pursued. Leaves Are All My Darker Mood.

Memento Mori And Obey The Lord. Art And Religion Love The Somber Chord.

Our Life Runs Down In Sending Up The Clock. The Brook Runs Down In Sending Up Our Life. The Sun Runs Down In Sending Up The Brook. And There Is Something Sending Up The Sun.