The silly sight of life that foams,
Spreading in a useless poem,
Never saved a life of mine,
Never helped my soul to rhyme.
For idle lovers what's the use?
Of taking sonnets' hard abuse?
And my heart still beats and beats,
What is love to a bloodless flea?
Yet the sundial's shadows turn,
And fire and ice continue to burn.
We realize that unlike a song,
The road from which we turned was wrong.
But one more hostage gazed with hurt,
Complained, "Look at all this dirt."
The other, "It's the mud that's dried.
My, look at all this sky."