THE FOOL BY THE ROADSIDE
 
 WHEN all works that have
 From cradle run to grave
 From grave to cradle run instead;
 When thoughts that a fool
 Has wound upon a spool
 Are but loose thread, are but loose thread;
 When cradle and spool are past
 And I mere shade at last
 Coagulate of stuff
 Transparent like the wind,
 I think that I may find
 A faithful love, a faithful love.