The Return of Music (146)
When was there ever frith to last, on earth?
So soon are we returned to disarray,
And yet rail at the apparition of dearth
As if a glitter momentarily gay
Were stone and cave. But dwelling on a lease
As surely we do, and earning but to spend,
I still would rather suffer love’s excess
Than coldly pass an unremembering end.
Braver clad in the panoply of loss
And somewhat resigned to standup at the store
Oh let me fit my career of sorting dross
To times that need decision even more.
The haze withholds an abode for gods, not men.
Nomads lower their wind-torn voices then.
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