cast two lines,
one shaded dark, one light
upon the carpet where I lie still.
This is winter light in the afternoon of my discontent.
Why cannot I be happy with this small glory; why must I yearn for the blinding light of summer,
when the carpet on which I sleep will scorch my back with heat and blind my eyes, making me flee the sun in search of shade, where I will think with fondness of snow and ice?