[Written for the Charing Cross Album]
I.
Seen, too clear and historic within us, our sins of omission Frown when the Autumn days strike us all ruthlessly bare.
They of our mortal diseases find never healing physician;Errors they of the soul, past the one hope to repair.
II.
Sunshine might we have been unto seed under soil, or have scattered Seed to ascendant suns brighter than any that shone.
Even the limp-legged beggar a sick desperado has flattered Back to a half-sloughed life cheered by the mere human tone.
