Hang not the full weight of your hope on me: Nor burden me with tall Dreams and yearnings. For when I come to birth Out of this ancient earth, Your disappointment, free To judge, shall find me small As now you are. Burdens the soul is loth To bear will stunt my growth. Nevertheless you call -- Scorning your present as of little worth, Dreaming of plenty in desuetude and dearth. But know your present is a crystal ball Of pregnant girth, Elastic to embrace infinity. In it you can descry Next season's pupa in this year's butterfly -- In this year's worm next season's moth. So linger not. Look if you will. It flees with gazing. But you have power to fill This instant -- the only time that is yours Of all the precious unreturning hours. Hang not your moment like a dangling sloth Upon time's tree. Your trice is transient but capacious; and holds all Of me and the past together, in mutual Seed and source. Your now contains us both. |