It is life in slow motion,

it’s the heart in reverse,

it’s a hope-and-a-half:

too much and too little at once.

It’s a train that suddenly

stops with no station around,

and we can hear the cricket,

and, leaning out the carriage

door, we vainly contemplate

a wind we feel that stirs

the blooming meadows, the meadows

made imaginary by this stop.