Always too eager for the future,
Pick up bad habits of expectancy.
Something is always approaching; every
Till then we say,
Watching from a bluff the tiny,
Sparkling armada of promises draw near.
How slow they are!
And how much time they waste,
Refusing to make haste!
Yet still they leave us holding wretched
Of disappointment, for, though nothing
Each big approach, leaning with brasswork prinked,
Each rope distinct,
Flagged, and the figurehead wit golden
Arching our way, it never anchors;
No sooner present than it turns to past.
Right to the
We think each one will heave to and
All good into our lives, all we are
For waiting so devoutly and so long.
But we are wrong:
Only one ship is seeking us, a black-Sailed unfamiliar, towing at her backA huge and birdless silence.
In her
No waters breed or break.
