Gold

There will come a year, sweet:
When the hammer is reversed, upwards swung
then your gold shall be pounded to iron

There will come a year, love:
When the loom is upturned, and backwards run
then all the gold to old straw will be spun

There will come a year, child:
When Earth, mortal, shall fall into the Sun
and then your locks of gold shall be undone

But, God, if I could now count and keep
the fistfuls of blue you hold in your eyes

If I could but count and keep...