Indivisible
Do the dead know nothing, remember nothing?
The eyes of my dead meet mine
Or, merged in them, look at the oak I planted,
Grown taller than I, and look
Into the living eyes
That were my children's, but now
Into their children's look, seeing themselves
Or, beyond themselves,
Features, lines no horizon frames.

Though with dying eyes I look
At the garden that outgrows me,
At the rooms full of things unfinished,
Things done with, things half-rotten,
Still I must love the breath, flesh, fibre tended,
Growth not for me, the seedling's, and growth ended,
...