When love was young and bore an immigrant Soul, how fresh and adventurous the years And brinkmanship, my rite, was took for grant, Aye, in my flotsam and jetsam, I spent no tears Which by and by a greedy sea of beginnings Has left no bounty, but cargo delivered or turned To wood adrift, which built but useless things, Children love tossing in fires bonny burned. Here I lie, on the waters edge, searching— For something to contain my emptiness, My wanderlust, but like shy waves lurching, I wrestle now, toward land, not loneliness. Though I spent my life as a flag unfurled, A disembodied soul is without this world.