And through the ages of Impermanence
Through nations: rise and fall
Through long and short winters
The taste of Constancy has riddled our tongues
We have built our cities on a Constant Shore
We’ve driven the moorings deep
We’ve hung the heavy doors
Of Civilization, of Art, of Sanctity
Yes, we have built our city on the shore
So sure the waves would only offer sleep
Sure our White Cliffs offer support
And what’s more than the waters of the shore?
Seem to slowly creep to the feet of our beds
Creep into our lungs
Creep into our heads
Our cliffs fall into the sea
And what’s more than the waters of our shore?
As constant as the exhalent the neighbor seethes
As midnight black as the Back Country of Pennsylvania
Of Bethlehem, strong as steel
Of New York or London, weak-kneed by the soot
Main Street straddles the waterline
This is fine, of course, as long as there is Sanctity.
And the Maples have gone north to find their sanity
And the taste of constancy has gone quite awfully sour
We have built our cities on a Constant Shore
And by the end of the shortest winter of them all
The ocean licks the feet of our beds
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