Alone I fall but the morrow comes,
And aye such tenderness escapes the lot of me,
I am lost or so it seems,
Beyond the capacity of this mind to see.
Once the sound of music pained,
The look of a trampled man never gave me pause,
And yet such burden borne on me,
Was this mind’s own rigid, frightful cause.
For hate, dislike, lost and found,
Are but visions of fantasy like flags unfurled,
It’s true nothing in this dream has changed,
Except how I, this mind, see this world.