It is time that beats
in the breast and it
is time
That batters against the
mind, silent and
proud,
The mind that knows it is
destroyed by time.
Time is a horse that runs in
the heart, a horse
Without a rider on a road at
night.
The mind sits listening and
hears it pass....
Felicity, ah! Time is the
hooded enemy,
The inimical music, the
enchantered space
In which the enchanted
preludes
have their place.
—Wallace Stevens (cf. {98,4})
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