To chords of springtime expectation,
we trust again, as once before;
to rainy, sullen declarations—
and losing ranks once more in war.
Enough of dreams of flourishing;
illusion blooms within the dell.
The brittle leaves, for all their colouring,
now serve the privy’s purpose well.
So hoarse, uneasy, in these verses,
with words half-scratched and half-believed:
you swore devotion—false and cursive!
your people stumble, self-deceived.
Foretelling still, my lines awaken
a fist of rhyme, a dawn intoned;
and every dusk I praise, unshaken—
your final leaving, carved in stone.