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I feel the proud sun mostly sings at dusk
when day plays sole sharp notes of night,
and like a lonely artist will fain busk
on any corner under a street-light;

while I shed tears before an empty cup,
forgetting the juice which filters through a crack—
as timeless as what stars have always sup
and casted in everything we yet lack.

The moon does not whisper in wide ears
that rise taller than the tallest mount sowed as walls,
which any sea creature deafly hears
from strings plucked by sailors unfree to loud calls;

for the ocean shall not, like blue drops deep,
shore, as a treasure box, what strands can keep.