It is ever-breaking fragile pain,
Thinly-strung lightning-flames.

It is stressing, tense, and pulsing life.
To force down grief, to strengthen strife.

It is flowing wonders' pouring heart,
A weathered, broken beggars' cart.

It is swimming through the sunlit air
On perfume-scented strands of hair.

It is sprouting springtimes luscious glade,
And lying down in burning shade.

It is a flashing trick of fading shadow,
In summer sunlights only meadow.

It is broken trust and spoken lies,
An angry haze in bleeding eyes.

It is sipping sweetness and pouting lips,
A flag of peace that snags and rips.