It is hot and the day wears itself on the street, the pavement
Cloying with sunshine -- its bright reflections
Are uncertain; upon it the dark noon broods. An evening’s
Promise shelters the day with tomorrow, but fears,
For it hangs in the draught of its twilight,
And not every darkness is mean. Who is without comfort
At the finish line, and where will he turn when he wants to hear
The order in the burrows of the sun? Time
Has suffered this eternity, and it is into time he will return.
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