Final is the Fall. Yet as it goes
the Winter knows
it will return again
Final's the Winter then
and still, continually Spring thaws
Th'Permanence of fallen snows
And will all future flakes
Winter yet makes
Still, snow is final, yes, and Fall
is final, & life, Summer, Spring, All--
Even Light's Final Love, after World's turned black ^{30} I can never pass this little poem without feeling exceptionally pleased. It is still a marvelous accomplishment of simplicity; exactly what I was after. It violates with all the wrong metrics so admirably: just the kind of thing I wish I had accomplished more often. [line 5] "continuously" because Spring itself as a continuation (rather than the --fleeting-- something going on & on), not "continually." "Final love," [line 11] must not be confused with "murdered love." The one I had in mind was "last(ing)" Love (as Final Love): I do not know to what extent the scheme I used (suggestive, rather than explicit) is successful with others, but there you are (I love it). Time is the 'delicious' quality: To be afforded a measure of time (by whatever fortuitous circumstances of health, chance, occasion... we call it "means") is truly the most pleasurable of experiences; to be in full possession and enjoyment of "a pause!" This poem is about unbounded possibility (it asserts that even at the heights of the hopeless nihilism within any unalterable disposition (direction) we may yet suddenly discover that the indeterminability of absolute orientation allows us the freedom to have faith (that we are yet indeed going in the direction opposite the Hopeless one)... the freedom to dream, to hope, and to imagine.@
some brighter Day yet will be back 30