We are retarded runners in a race,
Who think we speed to goal with our own strength,
And that our will and muscle sets the pace...
Yet all the while our tense and quivering length
Unfolds as slow as flowers at spring's command,
Timed to adagios whose metronome
Swings to the rhythm of another land
That we are facing; running slowly home.

Advancing toward the thing that is behind,
Treading a line that is a circle's curve,
Our slow, recurrent feet upon the wind
Only to mark sidereal measure serve
Where solar speed might laugh to scorn such heat —
Retarded runners, rhythmical of feet.