Poem: C'Est La Vie

That beacon alight in the furnaces

of hallowed fire that horizon in deep azure,

to a broken mast-shaft at north;

that in the mellowing year of spring,

tinged with stars of old beside a rocking chair,

oft swayed by the west wind in autumn,

slowly drifting away from the sand dunes,

subservient nature's most ardent desire:

of halcyon-days my shipwrecked dreams,

O horrible! horrible! that crow's quill in a nous of light

hath brought me to this end at sunset of the evening sky,

of darkly inkpot in ruffled feathers, my love,

to my mind still in this world of wanton looks

of eyes so blind e'ery fair by the sweat of thy brow,

lost in the twilight of that bewailing night asleep,

some such snowflakes through a falling star in winter cold

under the bolted sky, too deep for woe,

against bloody tyrant time by thy grove,

to think on thee in thy presence alone,

Lord of my vassalage! merry, merry christmas!