Back into the amber yearning, all my soul within me curling,
soon again I felt a knotting somehwat lowered than before.
“Truly,” said I, “Truly that is something as thy widows’ sadness;
Let me be, then, what and who is me, and this mystery explore –
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; –
‘Tis my beat and nothing more!”
Broken glass of peanut butter, when, with many hurt and mutter,
thin hair kept a shapely maiden of the sanely gaze of yore;
not the beast impatience craved she; not a spoon stopped or saved she;
But, with cuisine of hoard or gravy, smirched above my amber core –
smirched upon a dust of malice just above my amber core –
smirched, and sat, and nothing more.