We will make our meek adjustments,
Contented with such random
As the wind
In slithered and too ample pockets.
For we can still love the world, who findA famished kitten on the step, and
Recesses for it from the fury of the street,
Or warm torn elbow coverts.
We will sidestep, and to the final
Dally the doom of that inevitable
That slowly chafes its puckered index toward us,
Facing the dull squint with what
And what surprise!
And yet these fine collapses are not
More than the pirouettes of any pliant cane;
Our obsequies are, in a way, no enterprise.
We can evade you, and all else but the heart:
What blame to us if the heart live on.
The game enforces smirks; but we have
The moon in lonely alleys makeA grail of laughter of an empty ash can,
And through all sound of gaiety and
Have heard a kitten in the wilderness.
