And children still grow up with those deep eyes That know nothing, still grow up and die, And everyone goes on about his business. And bitter fruit grows big and sweet And falls at night like dead birds on the ground And lies there a few days, and rots away. And still the wind blows on, over and over We fail to sense it, speaking some old words And feeling how our limbs tingle and grow tired. And highways still stretch out across the grass, And habitations spread with street-lights, trees and pools, threatening, dried-out, deathly . . . For what is all this built, that won’t add up And yet increases still, beyond counting? How can we laugh, then suddenly cry and pale? What benefit these grandiose games of ours, Which are ourselves, when we are still alone And wander on without a search or goal? What benefit even to speak of all of this? Yet “Evening,” when we say it, still speaks much, Running with sadness and with wretchedness Like dense honey oozing from the empty comb.