As merry as the day was long, I wandered, winderly,
Demure amber, skyward, encased the thread of day,
And I read the benches of the barely dead.
So planted I turned to the lake,
As, aimlessly, the moorhens mawked and paddled,
The slithers of the day,
Circling and encircling, nothing, a moment.
And showed a commitment to that aegis,
that I could not,
As I read the benches of the barely dead,