Unlike the serpent that doth eat its eggs The sun with his own fiery dish-like form Out-reigns his mother’s pallid eastward dregs Waking the giant up and the crawling worm.
And thus the day begins like a story short Where every tiny episode is sharp And leads to one quick end—the final part— Leaving the reader thirsty for more notes from harp*.
The afternoon stays warm in luncheon hot And quick short naps like nights of human life Rejuvenate the soul and the sinewy lot Only to drain it all at the twilight rife.
When once a burning youth feels hapless, cold Reclining step-by-step to the foggy west Leaving streaks of red upon the cloudy folds Abrupt, but soft and slow, in move, for the final rest.
So, thus the story, day, and life is done The harp* with broken strin…