Wife of Time

The child of time is sparrow-shrill,

The bride of time can speak and sing,

The wife of time is fruitful, weaving the act,

But her throat is still.

Time's juices first in his child keep tender

The leaf-quick growth of bone;

Sweet energies pour out in the bride's singing,

Until the woman's skeleton, recoiling from surrender,

Tightens, and turns to stone.

Still her flesh is giving, weaving, making,

But the hard bone-tree distils no leaf

That can take from the bone the bone's aching,

And the marrow of grief.