Granite Temples

Tenaciously I clung to outworn dreams,

I would be young and keep the mind June-burdened.

(A catacomb for ghosts, I learned, with gleams

From dead moons flickering) Now autumn-guerdoned.

Mature as earth, I taste the wine of youth;

Embrace October, and I hear no sighing

From musty tombs, but clarion calls of truth.

My spirit sings its freedom from the dying:

Reality is stern, but oh, how good

Though kissed more acridly by lips of sorrow,

To build of granite, not of rotting wood,

The temples to adorn the new tomorrow--

Ripe fruit was clinging to a withered bough;

Seeing, I shook the limb and greeted NOW.