In ruins lay his fondest streets,
The lamplights shine like ambergris,
The snow falls gently while he sleeps,
He wakes to find the glaring fleece.

The gods delight in stained-glass hours,
They peer through leaves of private bowers,
The winter drought, the April showers,
In May the imps behead the flowers.

The invalids will sip their broth,
And heave their blood into the cloth,
The curtains seize the gypsy moth,
It idles in the reaper’s swath.

With dreams of lonesome paradise,
His heart sails clear into the knife,
His rattle's quiet as the mice.
What is the point of endless life?