All our hours vacillate Like summer clouds gone sliding by Clotted, vein-veiled and late, Froward or deadly shy Apparitions of the empty, The essentially empty sky, To dissipate in an hour's downpour. All our hours, all our hours. Our most famous nimbus And more hallowed halo are Our only blessings, bare and lent By God, devil, or doubtful goal In dance of dread amusement. Each day we eat and ache, Something dark for its own sake Laughs at our glittering fate; We tend our hours like a wish, Alone but for some softer guess-- Our heart-happiness uncertain As divinity's parted curtain. What remains of marvel here Of all that drifts to dust Beneath a sky irremediably clear Is the irascible particular; The him of him, the her of her. Listen to the wind and to me-- Let lending lend in leniency An open, ageless, real reprieve (In which unsafe hearts may yet believe) To all our human tenancy Defined by that proscenium Under which we're born and moan Full of voice and softness, Full of whispers and of curses. With the individual soul, --With that and that alone,-- Wherever soaring moves above Or going goes in having went, Be thou communicant. And this as well I wish and say To one and all or the all-in-one: Touch whatever in touching comes, And, -brave beyond what may be saved By what such touching has engraved,-- Never one instant's kissing shun.