The woman, out-of-seasonally inher winter's attire, fire-redjacket and woolen cap, snapsoff rounds of sermons. Full-onleafy, on a late-spring's earlymorn, the parked trees stretch and standstately in their disbelief.
We could gathertogether, kinked elbowto elbow, wiggly fingerssnugly knotted (not the knotof a smoothed-down board,the knot, all bumps and twists,we tied when we didn’t tie knotsvery well, but we tied themclose and tight), at the creekwe call a brook to make it feelmagical (that kind of magicwhere frogs speak their cursesbefore they splash off).We could gatherthere, and not speakthe rathers we’ve used not to,
The sit down is a stew.It’s a slow stew on the stool.What’s with this song?This song. It’s beenbeen played too much,too much to the pointto the point it’s not just lostit’s not just lost, it’s oblivious tooblivious to whatever appealto whatever appeal it had. Once.Once. It appalls him.Appalls. Is that too strong a word?Permit me to say no.Permission granted. No.May he? He may. He might winback its appeal with few subtle changes.
Consulting summer's clock,But half the hours remain.I ascertain it with a shock --I shall not look again.The second half of joyIs shorter than the first.The truth I do not dare to knowI muffle with a jest.
Oh Sumptuous momentSlower goThat I may gloat on thee --'Twill never be the same to starveNow I abundance see --Which was to famish, then or now --The difference of DayAsk him unto the Gallows led --With morning in the sky --
Behold, as goblins dark of mienAnd portly tyrants dyed with crimeChange, in the transformation scene,At Christmas, in the pantomime,Instanter, at the prompter's cough,The fairy bonnets them, and theyThrow their abhorred carbuncles offAnd blossom like the flowers in May.— So mankind, to angelic eyes,So, through the scenes of life below,In life's ironical disguise,A travesty of man, ye go:But fear not: ere the curtain fall,Death in the transformation sceneSteps forward from her pedestal,Apparent, as the fairy Queen;