For a while we in a model seem to see
The whole-Then it is a fragment. a piece
Of ancient pottery, a bit of trash on its
Way to the dust from which it came.
Of such is the glory of poetry: A dancing
Girl-An old woman dying.  The bird of
Paradise that never was- the phoenix
Rising from the ashes so that we may
Know all is all.  Infinite is the pathos of
Our gladness no less glorious.  Slow ...
Time is our genius to be .  For a while.