Classic Poem

He is so bitterly concerned
With time, he takes no pride
In going where his steps are turned,
Nor in the manner of his stride.

He finds discomfort in his powers
Of hurrying up a street,
And yet he hurries on. The hours
Are spaniels snapping at his feet.

When you have walked where you would walk,
And tired your feet of streets and lanes,
Behind a thin door you will talk
Of what you know of suns and rains.

Much you will tell of cooling fact.
You will name the hours dawn and noon,
Predict how all the stars will act
And where the sky will wear the moon.

Yet there will be what you cannot say
Hardened in thought, as in a mine
Lies the unlighted ore; today
Has held more than you can define.

What you may tell is the desperate reach
Of tongues now satiate with clay,
And what will glitter beyond your speech
Is what an unshaped tongue will say.