We all want to be riding on
when the summons comes.
Going on, going toward,
to be seen as willing ourselves
into the next day and the next,
circling the lake once more
and then finding the passage
between the mountains to
the upper valley starred with flowers,
with ships of clouds running aground
among the trees and the trees dripping
with spring and life in droplets,
and then to hear among the rocks
the deep, the dark deep resonance
of the old sweet earth, again
and again, before the end.