In melancholy, our thoughts reside.
In dreams, our thoughts preside.
With the most deft of touches
Our thoughts subside,
And ride the most noble of crests.

In time we shall exhume
Those withered bodies in their sunken tombs.
Why Lord? O Los!— the weary pang of time-forgot—
Birth me from your cosmic egg,
I wish to sit amidst the hawks.

Cluck, cluck. Peck, peck.
Chicken!— thou peck at mine brain!
I was not placed amidst the hawks,
I am spread across the pen—
I sit amongst the grain.