The night drags lately on unhinged,
The ringing just for me to dwell,
To listen beyond any noise and find it further still,
I'm found in murky dreams so frail,
They hardly hold a pull and so descend,
To settled sheet like drowsy sediment,
I am sleepy with the time,
I am gorged on frantic plays,
The hidden inner man has walked upon the face and is now to rest.

O little creature by the lake,
Come wrap now in vermilion wools,
For in the ripple of its folds,
A face, no doubt, is surly long.

With a stagnant malcontent,
The stillness is a deathly cool,
That leans too full upon the soul,
And dips the heart in ill-fit dread.

You, O little one, are for the wools,
Which cover you from head to soles,
Which cast in worlds unsaid a happy scene,
Not mirrors but a peak through knitted thread,
At home without this weary selfward gaze.

The sun is muddled in the glass,
Warm petals to the seated crowd,
And so the evening blooms,
Rose dipped in amber heats.