For all the little agonies of day,
Like crowding flowers marre an open field,
Until the beauty of the field is naught,
But petals there the true beauty in yield.

Why must I run so dry, my friend?
As fields become so plain?
I wish to see the flowers bloom,
But cower there in pain.

Surely I cannot bear these agonies,
Alone. My vigours crash down on my knees,
Surely a death must come my strength and prize,
To fall on barren fields that flowers rise.

With much vexation brooding deep within the self,
The foil of every thought is parsed and looped,
There erect thick bars and crosses to the south,
To be unmoved and hence to rail against,
Yet with a step the rage is past: it was a foolish game.
Though in it's passing I have found a meager grip,
The hem of strength in calloused hands.

On time and its grasp:
I am chilled and warmed at the passing day,

In motion is the beauty borne afresh,
And the flowers vibrant in the brightened noon,
I see myself an exile tend to fields of time,
To watch a sapling rise and hear the creaking bark,
Mutter wisdom of a king unseen,

Yet it is cold when time rolls to the frost,
The days are crushed and dwindle shorter fast,
I feel a burning cold, my skin attacked,
In time I kneel here in its grasp bound up,
This time foreturns and steals my heat like frost,

In minutes to the darkest nights at length,
Brief need and lengthy ponderance, I know:

Time's digits are held on marionette string,
And mold me like a potter so.

Teetering on the edge,
The fragile balance of sorrow and gladness,
Is shattered by a stream of immutable joy and peace.
Tears of love remain.
Where are you now, shame?
Are you not cast out by tears of love?