Carol Camp

Meanwhile, Human
The Hidden Now
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While We Wait For Sunrise

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while memory holds a seat
in this distracted globe

weeds take over flowers
canker
the canker galls the infants of the spring,
too oft before their buttons be disclosed

but I have that within which passeth show
impious

we are such stuff
as dreams are made on, and our little life
is rounded with a sleep

my words fly up, my thoughts remain below:
words without thoughts never to heaven go

jumping o'er times,
turning the accomplishment of many years
into an hour-glass

i 'gin to be aweary of the sun and wish the estate o' the world were now

she should have died hereafter;
there would have been a time for such a word.
to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
creeps in this petty pace from day to day
to the last syllable of recorded time,
and all our yesterdays have lighted fools
the way to dusty death. out, out, brief candle!
life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
that struts and frets his hour upon the stage
and then is heard no more: it is a tale
told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
signifying nothing