What's to be done, as a captive
Of loneliness and perhaps despair?
What other worlds, symphonies
We have never known, searching
For a chance to shine, Howsoever
In what light is the fairie afright
Of imperfection, when her wings
Are judt a little too bleak, clipped
And she is cheated into the forest
Like a shackled horse that abhors
Its every trotting footstep because
It only knows where to go because
Baptist of tar drenches the tomb