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In memory the flare is rippling flame On harbor waters gaudy with the light Of burning oil; since then a thrifty wane Has sapped the swollen torch of all its might, While leaving still the gull aloft to round The wilds that turned suburban; lost the fire That roared from sea to summit where the mound Of Vulcan waited, waiting for the gyre Of time to waken rock to molten wrath. And waits senescent still; the gulls that flew Still fly, I guess, above the wasting sloth Of quenched ambition; lost the flames that grew When hope still planned above the stars to fly - Indifferent, I will not waste a sigh. |
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