We aged one hundred years and this descended
in just one hour, as at a stroke.
The summer have been brief and now became ended;
The frame of the ploughed plains lay in smoke.
The hushed road burst in shades then, a soaring
Lament rose, ringing silver like a bell.
And so I protected up my face, imploring
God to break me earlier than struggle fell.
And from my reminiscence the shadows vanished
Of songs and passions—burdens i might no longer need.
The Almighty bade or not it's—with all else banished—
A book of portents horrible to study.
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