A man lives for as long as we carry him inside us,

for as long as we carry the harvest of his dreams,

for as long as we ourselves live,

holding memories in common, a man lives.

His lover will carry his man’s scent, his touch;

his children will carry the weight of his love.

One friend will carry his arguments,

another will hum his favourite tunes,

another will still share his terrors.

And the days will pass with baffled faces,

then the weeks, then the months,

then there will be a day when no question is asked,

and the knots of grief will loosen in the stomach,

and the puffed faces will calm.

And on that day he will not have ceased,

but will have ceased to be separated by death.

How long does a man live, finally?

A man lives so many different lengths of time.

Brian Patten (1946–)

‘Come, fill the Cup’

VII

Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring

Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:

The Bird of Time has but a little way

To flutter – and the Bird is on the Wing.

…

XXI

Ah, my Belovéd, fill the Cup that clears

TO-DAY of past Regrets and future Fears:

To-morrow! – why, To-morrow I may be

Myself with Yesterday’s Sev’n thousand Years.

XXII

For some we loved, the loveliest and the best

That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,

Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,

And one by one crept silently to rest.

XXIII

And we, that now make merry in the Room

They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom,

Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth

Descend – ourselves to make a Couch – for whom?

XXIV

Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,

Before we too into the Dust descend;

Dust into Dust, and under Dust, to lie,

Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and – sans End!

…

LXVIII

We are no other than a moving row

Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go

Round with the Sun-illumin’d Lantern held

In Midnight by the Master of the Show;

LXIX

But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays

Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days;

Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,

And one by one back in the Closet lays.

LXX

The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,

But Here or There as strikes the Player goes;

And He that toss’d you down into the field,

He knows about it all – HE knows – HE knows!

LXXI

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,

Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit

Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,

Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

LXXII

And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky,

Whereunder crawling coop’d we live and die,

Lift not your hands to It for help – for It

As impotently moves as you or I.