Below the breeze of envy notwithstanding,
This livid season blooms in the custody of our senses.
Away from the greazy scorch of our work the young greet the Earth
With marvelous insults.
A mist pleases the imagination with its feathery shade and days
Shoot leaves between
Their dreaming fingers--
Inches above the dirt. We have always relied on the grace of youth,
While those sleepwalking hands spring open to clench a
Tuft of their sun.