Memo of the Ego
Where the cold winds come tramping through the woods
And leaves fall like dandruff from the woodland hair
Where memory retraced broken stems and seared buds
And white mist meanders more than mist upon the air
Where the roads have parted and never meet again
And what is so seldom is joy, and what might have been
Like a pendulum swings from moon to moon. The rain
Makes rivers in valleys along side the sniffling nose, keen
As birdsong, through the slushing heart, eyes wet still
With the wonder of all we take over the stubborn hill
All this, all this, the man, the child, clankering thought
Life is a promise, and love a wonder so little wrought.
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