What's in the words that you prefer
That in mine you can't find?
And what of beautiful nonsense
Does perturb your gorgeous mind?

Are you so blinded by the truth
There is no musing in divine?
And is your only nature pleasant
When the daily pain, your eyes might blind?

By what of truth, does reign aloof?
And where does fact not fall?
And how might every night I lie
If I can't sleep them all?

If every morrow, bide in sorrow,
as my beck and call,
Should life, by mine, become a bore
Might I relive it all?

Or revel in the stranger things
And write for wrong,
Or to my grave, I crawl.