Seasons We Ne’er Shall Live

The seasons all are fled and lo, are gone,
E’en those we ne’er shall live nor yet unfold,
They left but little ‘n this house forlorn,
Which thou didst never truly once behold.

The afternoons do speak thereof to me,
Which in a hush I cannot well abide,
I rinse with falsehoods and with sophistry
What faintly mimeth dream ere it subside.

And what I need must suffer, naught beside,
For little may I ken of what thou writ’st
As now thou dost, in manner once supplied
By thee, when first my hand was taught and kiss’d.

The noisy litanies thereof do tell,
That lean upon this pounding in my brain,
From which I mumble, loiter, and rebel,
With pride unearn’d, as if a sage in vain;

And of it speaketh my insomnia’s spell,
Ah, my splendid foe, in tangles deft array’d,
Painted in anxious hues I know too well,
How much is lost of what once softly laid

That sense of yielding, leaning on thy side,
With belly full and peace ‘yond all mark,
Whilst thou wouldst hearken to my snoring cry,
As I in sleep grew monstrous, warm, and dark.