Return to Archive Poem by:Nicholas Gordon However sweet the air or green the sea, At times I shut myself within my room: Perhaps I've failed to pierce the dream of me; Perhaps I've let my mind become my tomb. Yet when Creation hangs upon my breath, Apocalypse advances with my age: No happiness can compensate for death Nor pleasure overwhelm my bitter rage. In my love for you there is a field of flowers Vaster than all the galaxies of night; Each moment holds a sea of restless hours, Replacing time with hills of laughing light. So may we long be given this sweet grace And love the child within the aging face; Render the world upon the scrim of mind, Yet glimpse through love the mystery behind.