OWED ON A GRECIAN URN

thou, sweet pride of the local pawn shop 
thou whose presence slows time 
thence my memory can recall when you were once mine

the sunlight of dancing dreams 
the day clouds of light 
the night of planets and stars

what wine did you bear   what oil lacquered your soul

are there melodies among this squandered beauty 
or memories of what may have been of Arcady

on the other side of the street, there 
the trees buds beckon, then bloom 
and laburnam stakes out a path where

flowers and colours neither you nor I could expect 
are sealed in your clay dance
while your sweet form etherializes my eye

* * *

the roses here are slow to blossom, dear vessel 
-- the weather has been cool --
if when I can sell enough roses 
you'll be with me soon