Now Dies Away

I know there is beauty, I remember its time,
when it was clear, distinct, present, but now
and always even that is fuzzy, funny, more distant
than that farthest shore (and all its colors and modes
and mystery) where rests the sun. Yet now
I wish to see what was seen, know what was known,
yet cannot call it forth, cannot force it forth,
cannot summon her as if she were a dog,
excited and happy and ready to play or walk
or just sit. (One can hardly imagine a poorer form
of this joy then as canis yet that is what I wish now,
for even this wretched view and that far distant shore
wherein she rightly lies. Only the rays of that sun
reach us here but we want so much more.) I could
sit and collect all the beauty I imagine, sound and sight
and form and future but will it lie, will it remain, will it
then be beauty? I try, and I cannot. I wish, and I cannot.
But it is there, always out of reach. So I must
dwell, there without and the hole unfilled burns
and I cannot fill. And so I wait and wonder where
it rests, where all (love, joy, peace) rests.

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