O fat white woman whom nobody loves, Why do you walk through the fields in gloves, When the grass is soft as the breast of doves And shivering-sweet to the touch? O why do you walk through the fields in gloves, Missing so much and so much?

A young Apollo, golden-haired, Stands dreaming on the verge of strife, Magnificently unprepared For the long littleness of life.

Whoso maintains that I am humbled now (Who wait the Awful Day) is still a liar; I hope to meet my Maker brow to brow And find my own the higher.