Nothing Grows Old

This is the hour the gods set to music:
Song in the branches, hope in the heart,
Rhythm in poplars like green spires adorning
The morning in tune with the moment apart.

Today is a soaring; and summit and steeple
And smoke form the clearing discover the sky.
Uncover the sky for us, upward-bound-skylark-
The song will remain though the singer must die.

This is the peak of the measureless minute
That mankind aspires to and never can hold,
Disclosed in a flash by a primrose, a linnet-
The instant that tells us that nothing grows old.