What Are Years
What is our innocence, what is our guilt? All is vanity, the youth, the hour. Assemble the nuts and the cares, the flames
whose smoke, filled the air
with shrieking light.
The trees, have been dipped in wax. Do they return, if you seek them
in various quarters?
What are years, but their moments
with you,
reflections of desire in glass?
- Marianne Moore