At first, the dark rain-clouds
cast a gloomy spell
over the eye
of the day,
...
One irksome, prosy afternoon
devoid of interest, time hanging heavily -
to have my stripling fling,
I digressed into a bush
...
Palsied dewy touch, knell-swathed-
a flawed crust of chrysalis
burned into exile.
...
The water is dark and silent, reflecting sparks of the night’s fire
that bedeck a window of sky.
Your voice tonight does not thrill me at all, poet wind.
...
The hills are alive, awake;
real are the voices raised by
the jaded, stirring trees.
Moderately diminishing against the metropolis,
...