Francis W. L. Adams

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?

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