To A. L. Gordon
In night-long days, in aeons
where all Time’s nights are one;
where life and death sing paeans
as of Greeks and Galileans,
never begun or done;
where fate, the slow swooping condor,
comes glooming all the sky—
as you have pondered I ponder,
as you have wandered I wander,
as you have died, shall I die?
