Lamentation.

The years encroach,
Impel
—Beating like winged bats
In some deep well
Of Mind.
The days are dark,
Are dull,
Are long.
Somewhere a lark
Lilts out a song.
Who hears?
Who cares?
Save poets with all their petty fears
And petty joys,
And coming age.
The years encroach,
Impel
Beating like winged bats
In some deep well
Of Mind.
—R.I.B.