The crosses on the convent roofs

Gleam sharply as the sun comes up.

What’s down below is in the past

Like last night’s crickets, far below.

And what’s above is in the past

As sure as all the angels are.

Why should the future leap the clouds

The bays of heaven, brighted, blued?

Chant, O ye faithful, in your paths

The poem of long celestial death;

For who could tolerate the earth

Without that poem, or without

An earthier one, tum, tum-ti-tum,

As of those crosses, glittering,

And merely of their glittering,

A mirror of a mere delight?