It's too fine, with the break in the weather,
This strange humility that's found
Me wanting,  still not knowing where
My mind has been,  or what surrounds
The afternoon, its slow despair
Confounding every effort made
To make amends or clear the air,
In which we each pass too afraid
To use it in the evening damp
When less self-conscious animals
Avoid the halo from the lamp
And touch the night with mating calls.
I'd barter souls,  of heaven blest,
To offer you the morning's crest.