The gods, in their long halls of static gold,
Grow weary of a nectar that never warms or cools.
They lean on amber balustrades to hold
The echo of our songs, and call us fools,
And in their endless afternoon, they weep,
Not having anything to keep.
They envy us the cracking of the rose,
The single, perfect petal’s loosening grip.
They never feel the hurried door that closes,
The final, salted taste upon the lip.
They pour their wine on flagstones, never seeing
The brief, red stain of being.
Because any moment may unmake the air,
The light is caught more fiercely in the glass;
Your hand upon my arm, the wind-stirred hair,
The fleeting faces in the market pass---
All held within a frame of brittle bone,
More beautiful because we are on loan.
You will never be lovelier than you are now,
Here, where the sundial’s shadow cuts the lawn.
The mortal furrow deepening on your brow
Is what the sleepless stars are leaning on
To understand a wonder they can’t own:
The way things burn before they’re gone.
We will never be here again. This green,
This specific hush of summer turning old,
Is a collapsing temple, briefly seen
By deities who shiver in the cold
Of their perfection, pressing to the glass
To watch the lovely, dying creatures pass.