Classic Poem

I promise you these days and an understanding
Of light in the twigs after sunfall.
Do you ask to descend
At dawn in a new world with wet on the pavements
And a yawning cat and the fresh odor of dew
And red geraniums under the station windows
And doors wide and brooms and sheets on the railing
And a whistling boy and the sun like shellac on the street?

Do you ask to embark at night at the third hour
Sliding away in the dark and the sails of the fishermen
Slack in the light of the lanterns and black seas
And the tide going down and the splash and drip of the hawser?

Do you ask something to happen as spring does
In a night in a small time and nothing the same again?
Life is neither a prize box nor a terminus.
Life is a haft that has fitted the palms of many,
Dark as the helved oak,
with sweat bitter,
Browned by numerous hands:
Death is the rest of it.
Death is the same bones and the trees nearer.
Death is a serious thing like the loam smell
Of the plowed earth in the fall.
Death is here:
Not in another place, not among strangers.
Death is under the moon here and the rain.
I promise you old signs and a recognition
Of sun in the seething grass and the wind's rising.

Do you ask more?
Do you ask to travel for ever?