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Lull
Come, strut and fret your hour upon a page,
and in this hazy, idle afternoon
do watch, do listen, filterless and calm:
there goes a wistful walker, there an eye
would read a greater mind, but lags in thought,
and there in placid recompense - for what? -
this young and insubstantial flagellant
brings lazy blows to bear, a world apart.
Time passes as the ink dries on a quill,
betokening some chaos for them all,
but no one, with the sunglight standing tall
has much of fear for any future ill.
And somewhere someone would not say the same -
perhaps some other day you'll hear his name.
