YOUNG GIRL AT A WINDOW
Or Time was lost. But someone saw
Though nobody spoke and nobody will,
While in the clock against the wall
The guiltless minute hand is still:
The watchful room, the breathless light
Be hosts to you this final night.
Over the gently-turning hills
Travel a journey with your eyes
In forward footsteps, chance assault—
This way the map of living lies.
And this the journey you must go
Through grass and sheaves and, lastly, snow.