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Mud unto mud!—Death eddies near— Not here the appointed End, not here!...
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Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear, Each secret fishy hope or fear. Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond; But is there anything Beyond? This life cannot be All, they swear, For how unpleasant, if it were! One may not doubt that, somehow, Good Shall come of Water and of Mud; And, sure, the reverent eye must see A Purpose in Liquidity.
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Breathless, we flung us on a windy hill, Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.
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A kiss makes the heart young again and wipes out the years.
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The cool kindliness of sheets, that soon smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss of blankets.
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