Mine weigh, now, almost a pound; In time, I guess, the first to go Will be the connecting rings, That link the house, the cars, the offices and doors Of places I was known; then The intimate teeth will lose their edge, Forgetting what it was they were to unlock. Finally the handles and the numbers , too, will yield to slow shocks, And only a place in time will haunt the rust Where once so many places came together.
But let it be, as if there were a choice—dust Does not much care for wills and codes; To resist the passing of keys makes little sense. No more than the dying of locks.