In nursing solo tea,
Some little clarities,
Dash rubies in the light,
And make a man so rich.

It is the hidden hours,
The time outside of time,
When patience is to flower,
And make a man so rich.

To shrink from much to thought,
Or is it blooming out from much?

Returning to my well-worn tracks,
By babbling streams that lace the streets,
Threading steps through weaving cars,
Away, away, on cobbled bridges to the sleepy west.

A poem if you please,
Six lines, no more I'm quite busy,
Well if its good we'll have to see,
A time ago I wrote like thee,
But the speare is shaken free,
I am left without such word-smithery.

Wide eyes,
Move slowly in a fierce breeze,
Wrapped up in fluttering eyelids,
A weary, little itch lines their periphery,
They want to dance over the road,
Yet on the path they remain.