So little its rending does the Veil resent
As the Unseen to All ay represent
That Eyes might drink at Beauty's fount
Tears flow to my arrears' account.
Tears flow to my arrears' account.
That Autumn is- of aught else dumb
I am Summer's worn out drum
I don't mind it's getting cold
But its doing what I'm told
Wine is bitter in Morning's cup
As is, to Anthems alien, standing up
Love's luck is that it so often die
In the bed where yet I lie.
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