Two times diverged in the city street
And unsure with which I felt at ease
And looking forward and back to meet
The warmth of sun, or smell of peat,
The grey of lanes or the green of trees.
So there at dawn the morning rose,
And the night lay down behind the west,
Where others welcomed sunset’s close;
And winter’s trumpet, loudly blows
The fanfare of the cold and stressed.
But little care have I of weather
As my wine now tastes of bitter pill
And all my bird is just a feather,
And I have a cow, instead of leather,
The early sunlight draped with bitter chill.
This late, late walk in the morning throng
And head filled with song and regret
Regret for having sung too long
Yet urged to sing I lingered on
Regret I remember, the song I forget
The valiant night sneaks off while I talk
And the morning arrives in a fire
While I spend all night in chase of the moon
I may as well paddle sea with a fork
For as long as I desire.
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