Till the mellow flowers wilt in tonight, and the rude stomps try crushing dew-daubed pebbles Keep burning the bell-jar as it melts without breaking. There's so little to stories that transpire in secrecy and die unburied deaths. Through weeks and months there's one time contesting against itself Peeping to look in between your urge and habit and at where it slips ; keeping no tale before you know of an art where all must fall. Words too must die secret deaths before they fade Into the horizon of token speech and embryonic calls. But believe there will be time, not Eliotian. There will be time for more sleep and little adieu, For summer to come and for blooms anew.