Each minute bursts in the burning room,
The great globe reels in the solar fire,
Spinning the trivial and unique away.
(How all things flash! How all things flare!)
What am I now that I was then?
May memory restore again and again
The smallest color of the smallest day:
Time is the school in which we learn,
Time is the fire in which we burn.

"Calmly We Walk Through This April's Day" in In Dreams Begin Responsibilities (1938); this poem has also been printed under the title "For Rhoda" (full text online)