It is time that beats in the breast and it is time
That batters against the mind, silent and proud,
The mind that knows it is destroyed by time. Time is a horse that runs in the heart, a horse
Without a rider on a road at night.
The mind sits listening and hears it pass.... Felicity, ah! Time is the hooded enemy,
The inimical music, the enchantered space
In which the enchanted preludes
have their place. —Wallace Stevens (cf. {98,4}) |