Page:The Dial (Volume 68).djvu/514

446 And so it is, and will be year on year, Time in and out of date; and still on time A billion grapes plunge bleeding into wine And bursting, fall like music on the ear.

The snail that marks the girth of night with slime, The lonely adder hissing in the fern, The lizard with its ochre eyes aburn— Each is before, and each behind its time.