Fog creeps upon the lucid rays,
And ice stills a cheshire grin,
But what foolish a day,
To see neither the fool or night,
And what progress could be made?
To what heights to soar and aid
That which, cannot be flight?
And the weight of merit weighs thin,
And silly to conceive a more gristly skin.

Deft I crawl and bound away,
To a life of casting off the grim.
A pleasure natural to minds of disarray.
An ambition courted by delight,
And delighted you were, having found me not allay,
But crowned by the glory of tomorrow and today.
A passion did I ignite,
What mindlessness did begin,
Perhaps not the day, if not the sins of the night.