Generation

by CHARLES G. BELL
AFTER the picnic we stretch out on the blankets,
Old people resting while the children play.
They are climbing over the rocks. We catch the voices,
Ripples of laughter, vanishing and high.
And we are no longer lying as we were,
But climbing over the rocks in the bright air.
On the clear wind of spring this laughter sounds: —
“Look where I am, I have climbed, I am here;
See, I am standing on the highest stone.”
We do not need to look, we are already there,
Putting off the times and things that are
Breaking with the time, being born again.
Leaves that fell to the ground return in the tree:
The old harvests are there, pressing at the limbs;
They are buds again in the fountain spring — so we,
Lying in the forest where we lose our names.
Children over the rocks climb the topmost spur,
And our voice is the voices; “Look, I am here!”