The sum to year for those to hear,
Two tens a-twenty, twenty twenty,
Five upon the millipedes.
Of these long ages spent in strange fashions,
In gorgeous dreams of sullen clouds linger,
On fields in fleeted seasons myriad,
In 'mail, and robes, and suits and then to falsest weaves of each,
In helms, and hoods, and hats and then to countless scores of each.

Few scatter names fewer find their face,
In time I'll watch the silt collect,
Drift down and sit at last their peace,
For now I'll chase the wind and stretch,
My hands at glancing shadows of a name,
Yet know far more about their place,
Within the world: their standing and pursuit.

If perfection were my master,
I'd write a poem pristine,
And ten out ten I'd long to see,
One zero,
Out of which the crowd erupts,
One zero,
Out of which my Lord outstands,
Two three,
Regardless I hold firm,
By Him I am pristine.