And what shall we do
and whom shall we tell
when we do it and when
ever might we return
from the doing and the telling?
And why must we go and do
why must we ever leave
the poufs and puffs of pillows
the piles of down and feathers
the coze and careless comfort
of cotton silk and flannel
of tea and toast of the Lovely Sun
pressing against windows
wanting only to please come in
spread her skirts over the small
house and touch us gently with her
slender fingers?
