To Make Do and Mend

It‘s too late once emerged to hatch ways out of here

After the nursling corn

Our fate speaks: make a headway quick and clear:

Then are we born


Adrift, no rules no signals, in Creation’s arms

The formulaic fails, engagement leans, betakes the helm


Our lackings schooled

Are promptly tooled

By consanguinity

Against calamity


It is then as here made to be: alone


There is a deal not aggregation nor a laying down

Woof-binded through the world

Wherein a trade whence restoration knows again

Means making good


Here dear, familiar, built on mysteries

A Master Father freely seeks repeals


Cast iron flaws

Are dashed to floors

In angry charity

With fine finality


A man aches for, and listless longs to assume


When in wit’s valley hid under a stone

A shade of death

And moot, set prone

And yet when young, one hale and callow is

And young song finds its health

Life made a throne


Yet losses raddle daily, as our days foredone are told

And years mount up as costings, a receipt-account unfolds


On treasuries of rooms,

Where pasts of joys show bloomed


Where totals of one’s flagrant inabilities

Pack bundled carpetbags of mortal vanities


As weighting: here’s a future keeps one’s takings-tins

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