This clever hour flees before Time’s rod,
Nor am I any wiser for its passing,
Nor richer in the vision of my God,
Nor in the shining wealth men are amassing

While I pen my anguish. What reward
Is mine for minutes spent in wordless grief?
This clever hour flees, nor brings relief,
But takes with it its meaning and reward,

Leaving me nearer to the waiting sod
And farther from grand hours I yet applaud.
Triumphal hours they were, that knew my mind
And flourished --- unlike these, through which I plod,

As though unknown to Inspiration’s touch,
Or scorned by Art for questioning so much.

Copyright (2006) by Arnold Cantor.
All rights reserved.

[Written 1958.]