Torn finger pads ashore in foaming rings,
Dashed in and all upon my frantic surge,
To mastery and melody the hope,
That I would fall again away in time,
Leave all the music from my soul in place,
Sharpen such thoughts beyond the measure of,
The mind, that it would simply play the strings.

I heard the banks do take their naps,
Though many moons are far between,
Unceasing pensions doled and all the rest,
Transaction cheques all flutter like the leaves,
Such ancient oak - a bastion never sleeps...
Except for when it does and all the bustle
With it takes a pause.
Though many stragglers find their feet
Still trotting on in learning or in errands
Never halting lest they fall behind... or...
Drop.

Shining band,
Severs the carpet twain,
Castings glossy shadows to its sides,
Folding reflections with its dullest shades,
A demarcation for the flowing rooms,
To inscribe the flowing floors with resolute boundaries,
And split the carpet twain in glimmering style.