Time—in whose arms we drown
Under the moon semi mauve
And the waves turn upside down
As we’re like a cloud and its rain;
One would crowd and one would drain.
Neither the bile of the moon
Nor the waves’ cause of swoon
Can mine the cloud
And imbibe the rain
No!—cause it would
Cause too much pain.
And I would rather pour each morn
Than to disappear when a ship horn.
I would probably be a child’s flute
Rather than being a master mute.