We would—you and I,
in times gone by—be blown through
fit-start fields and glassy
rains and packs of pigeons shy—
We would!—smiles and wry—
make merry weather of the dunes
that lie, and sands that under
Sunday’s sunshine cry—

And rope to boat, soar into the
spitting sea: you and me.

We would do all, and all
together be—both you and I,
until the fetid day that you,
in madness, mirth, and fie
would somehow, forget me first—
and die.