Very Old

Very old, very old, ages past,
  the gods woke in the minds of men
    and they could not hear but they listened,
  silent and bowed, stony cold before the pains of men.

How far, how far, how far back it goes -
  the memories of time in the human course;
    left to die when the last has died,
  but doomed to pass on right through the worst

Trees revealing themselves in the wind,
  passing from one motion to the other,
    a mysterious drift of time,
  hidden in the quiet matter.

Our collective dreams have spoken;
  they are loud under all of heaven,
    thundering an applause
  like the stars in their haven.

And there the stars reign,
  but are governed in a wider frame
   by what is closer than the breath,
  which is kept by which it came.
   

Featured image: ‘Starry Night,’ by Jean-Francois Millet (c. 1850-1865), image in the public domain.

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