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.