Cave of polished, gleaming plaster,
Sitting still while time flows faster,
Hiding here from sweet disaster,
From the coming day.
A cave of once platonic play,
And yesterday was May.

May,
A month of falling leaves,
Of hanging eaves,
And semibreves.
And note to note, the music plays,
Through quiet, coming glory days,
Until the setting of the rays,
And days of June in dim malaise.

Shadows on a bone-white cave
That danced from fire’s glowing grave,
Are burning from the light it gave,
From dying, fiery embers;
See how well the mind remembers
Days of love or lone Decembers.

The mind that ceases to forget
And cannot cease, but haunts on yet,
Is haunted by the silhouettes
Of pain and loss and cold regret;
Cast off caverns, make for morn,
Blinding beams are battle-born,
And if it rains from dawn to dawn,
Don’t raise shrines to praise the storm.