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The Red Tower
TWO POEMS
THE RED TOWER
The Red Tower on the glorious hill,
The awkward skill of girlhood, and its beauty,
The fury of a rose in summer burning,
Or the great library bowed down with learning,
These, as intricate as a tree, as tall and sheltering,
Stand like a people's freedom or the stars.
It is not time that kills
Though time tread brutally as a country wagon;
The tree must bear its fruit, and stone and steel
Cry out for use and wear, and these are death.
Before the wheels are turned the rust begins,
Before the words are learned the legend turns
Into an idle tale of kings and dragons;
Even before the benediction ends,
Whether in rain or sun, the tower crumbles.
But O, blossoming and impermanent,
Precarious as the rose that throws its petals,
The tower cannot fall but hands and voices
Rise to rebuild, and build as if for ever,
The wall, the winding stair, the massive dome:
Serene and fragile as a moment's vision,
The form that dies in childbirth and survives,
Held against rain and sun, the tower stands,
Forever held, forever falling.