I was afraid if I set out
I should ne'er return,
That my fluid heart so shook about
For quicksand trophies would ever yearn.
Who would love me in the lonely fen?
The bluebird, the fox, the wild horse?
These woodlings have it all to them
To scavenge, where Nature left no course.
Byron etched his mark in ancient stone,
Matisse left a chapel by the sea,
Could these modern entageweorc
Outlast a mortal misery?
I shall seek moderation in the shade,
Beside sunlight, that falls between the glade.
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