I thought: all this is only preparationFor learning, at last, how to die Mornings and dusks, in the grass under a maple Laura sleeping without pants on, on a headrest of raspberries, While Filon, happy, washes himself in the stream. Mornings and years. Every glass of wine, Laura, and the sea, land, and archipelago Bring us nearer, I believed, to one aim And should be used with a thought to that aim.
But a paraplegic in my street Whom they move together with his chair From shade into sunlight, sunlight into shade, Looks at a cat, a leaf, the chrome steel on an auto, And mumbles to himself, “Beau temps, beau temps.”
It is true. We have a beautiful time As long as time is time at all.
(found at Centre For Public Christianity)