There are things that do make it foul
Where the mind cannot cope
For each that catch my breath
My body doth malady
Do I for one make one, another?
I cannot do
I cannot do
Instead must sit or lie
And look on as lips dare move

So ether may flee from that portentous blackness
Hush the wind speaks, it says
And it must and it must lie
For truth makes it so
Unbearably vexing, do tell
I must, to this hear weightless air?

That he who owns those baby blues
With his honey colored brow,
With golden curls and font of phi
Fie, the terra holds none else by Jove
But young David’s brawn
And his languid pose
That all must swoon and so must reason loose

Or must she be with pearly skins
Or that which catch the light, hazel be
Must it be bodied sinuous,
Matching the line of fall?
That we to this must be

Perhaps even beasts of prey be better brutes
Than our cultured flock
Must lightly loose the sight of day

Bear thy back the blighted poor
To strive for thus will only be
To leave the dirt and reach for cotton clouds
And so be none but empty air

With which none can find the fault
Between the two which crime is better be
If balance be a near impossibility