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An honorary sprawl of words shall I
protest against these slow corrupting dusks.
What miracle it is when hands be spry,
against those leers of foes and all their "tsk"s.
By now the practice--reason doth see banal--
Has flourished into mighty flora beds,
For actions seeming to be, in a way, null,
have in a further way proved for the best.
The future's factory lies in wonton spaces
eliding moments to their next; so why
should I farewell a chance for minute graces
which ring "good day"s for years to see me by.
To give when I have little for the page
May prove a soul's salvation 'midst this age.
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