Mind a-breach a fickle thought,
Imaginative sensations with which we are taught,
Some stubborn - others keenly amended,
In which they sit with silence offended,
And those of satire that drift a-shore,
With some to laugh and others to bore,

Our mindful speckle of whim to shun with a tone so blue,
The righteous others that speak anew -

Thoughts to ponder with wicked eye,
Which crawl with shudders and tempted sigh;
To confide in the horrors that are to bequeath,
Afraid to seek what lay beneath -

With bones of many underneath this mind,
Memoric reminiscing of what more to find?

And might it be of happiest resonance,
Or a renaissance of benign dissonance?
Perhaps a slip of hapless covet,
With shame to embrace as mind had wove it -

Sturdy with thoughts to embarrass the moment,
And eyes to protest that very component.

Yet nonetheless the shame, the applaud, the grief or the sorrow,
Nothing says it better than "I'll see it again tomorrow,"

And only today are we to deny,
The thoughts, we think, are a dead-found lie.