574
An hour's addition to the unfated
Measure: a blue market
Square awned and cinnamon
Cries of routine contending joy.
The wine is tart and bitter
A part of this short allowance
Here; your dark eye, this loaf,
That net sea fragrant.
We must smile for the air, the sun,
Our imbricated loss,
The meet hazard of the stone,
The strutting birds aimless
In their span's aim. And the hour, all, done.