And to whom walks in marigold
Delight; swaying arms and all
Failing breathless beneath the ripples
Created, forgotten,
Or shrugged until tomorrow—
The darkness foretold by that distant sea
Caste beauty—this evening
Coupled with ashes amidst this.
The thought—once radiant—
Lies quivering, born unto the waters,
As we relish in the gurgling grace.
Copper concealing reds and blues,
Or the sympathies with which we create
The modern tales—
Suppose this dives disregarding the
Single-syllabic tanks—
Those panting cuties,
Heard through the squalor of specious calls
Arriving always before dawn.