* DUST *

A cone of dust is dancing at the lane end,

Caught from the surface of the thirsty trackway

And dropped again, into annihilation,

By gusts from nowhere.

Upon the wheel of little whirlwind moulded,

It billows in a wreath of spiral beauty,

But, swifter than the smoke of fire dislimning,

Endures no longer.

So I, intrinsical one slippery moment

Share with my brief, grey brother at the lane end

His buffet into being, then, unfettered,

A like dismissal.

Dust of the cosmos, you alone eternal

Immutable behind a myriad garments,

Your stars grow ripe upon the boughs of heaven;

But you bate nothing.

All one to you the forms and the reforming,

The fashion of the man, or mouse, or mountain:

So order be declared and conquered chaos

Dethroned for ever.