“Millions Fruitless Labour”
Millions fruitless labour, spirits in the spittle,
Liqueur of strong experience, perhaps—it matters little.
Tales and superstitions ever restive rest in rains
From daily deluge, oddly spaced refrains
As ever reigns forever in the wine
Of His grace and once in every life defined
In cardinal minutes gained and lost in seconds. Mortals taste
What each man leaves to follow time-worn trails of debris and waste;
He need not think he need not breathe, but still he’s here,
And in his heart’s delight he worships daily fears
Of winters’ melting snows discovering summers’ bloods in turn,
And in the embers of his nightly fires smoldering letters yearn
To appear and reappear in nuances of rhyme renewed, the afterglow,
Transfigurations in the ash. This he knows but would it were not so.