Wicked ticks the clock, our lord and master,
And rather unashamed are we who steal
Moments which pass by as fast—no! faster
Than we can hide them ere the heavy heel
Of guilt attempts to crush our sweet belief.
The clock be ******! the berry vines that cling!
For can what’s given freely still be thieved?
Go ask my heart: I’ve stolen not a thing.
Shameless, yes, but then so must the sun be,
For can you hunt what wishes to be found?
Go ask the sunwarm rocks, the beach in peace
While wars rage on, the mushrooms springing ‘round;
For in the lungs the air’s a wintry thing,
But on the cheek gives such a pleasant sting.