Hello sadness, again I find
Between the old and warming day:
And the birds chirp quieter - a calling night
And the children sleep away.

That's left is me and earth her moon
Still shining out the curtain sky;
The 'choly time when in sweet hue
When bedtime sheets are warmest high:

When sidewalks tint in waning grey
That lead the wind to lonely rooms
More good sadness from night today -
Or Tuesday I should call it too.

At any moment death today
Will shiver coldly down my spine
What could be more? What would display?
If can't we see, or full of sight?

Does it suffer like what we draw?
Is there further than heaven's field?
Are the minds still ours to call?
Is there meaning serenely real?

Can they see all and tease our pain?
Or mock us when in random times:
Will they reveal their selfish games?
Or is it us that play with life?

Are we more than the souls that go
Like passioned men that march too soon:
What matters it when death the goal?
Or find out all the world consumes?

To the window sill that lays out the street,
And gentle raindrops that expand the night
And dust of skin where at the corners creep
And four happy children that play outside:
More nighttime autos that bustle the floor
Under quiet stars below lantern heat:
And waning lamps that dim the houses door
And the sullen clouds that eventual sleep:
With calling mothers for their children young
And teenage men play their music and ride
With grandfathers old and lonely in sleep
And frightened boys that in their bedtime cry.
Then a poet that on his third floor sees
The entire world from his window keep.

In fact I might take to her too sensual,
Or chance that I might make lovers disease,
Or that to when love incomparable
A flight of kisses that to on her cheek:
Or could the love of each other remind
The passion nights and the spoken days?
What words to pour the earthling divine
If angels they talk or spirits they say:
Or might the lips that too much to her feel
Leave bitter thoughts that then sit on her face:
Or when the tests that should love then be real
And no love, no call, to have ever came.
Now poems that sit in between our time,
And love, and our love that figure in line.

More puddle steps that everyday
Fall back again with water rain
More tiny drops of water blow
And concrete grasses wet the stone:
More morning hue that fills the trees
And vapid air that sets the breeze:
In spring, and yet with winters loud,
The shoddy days the world bestows:
Of quick sunshine in leaving days,
Sour grass set in mellow rays;
A cousin-friend to seasons like:
The April springs of Toronto life.