Within these gates all opening begins:

White shouts and flickers through its green and red,

Where children play at seven earnest sins

And dogs believe their tall conditions dead.

Here adolescence into number breaks

The perfect circle time can draw on stone,

And flesh forgives division as it makes

Another's moment of consent its own.

All journeys die here; wish and weight are lifted:

Where often round some old maid's desolation

Roses have flung their glory like a cloak,

The gaunt and great the famed for conversation

Blushed in the stare of evening as they spoke,

And felt their center of volition shifted.