DULCIMER ECHO
On a train at the station, sitting by the
end - the dark night has just lifted for
nothing. I can hear the sounds, yet cannot
yet see : the old cupola and the church
tower, with that recorded sound of the
timing bells. Oh no, not again? What need
have we of Time? But, anyway, shiftless one,
with eyes that roam, with hands that beg for
use, with reasons a'plenty for nothing at all.
Why? Why do you arise just to greet another
day? John with white hair, without even a care,
will empty his spleen on the echoing green?
No. That's so yesterday; and it just cannot
be right in any way at all. At a train, on
the station, as the cars go by.
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