JOHN JONES.
11
IV.
Shells where no throb stirs of life left in lobsters since joy thrilled their fins—
Hues of the prawn's tail or comb that makes dawn stale,[1] so red for our sins!
V.
Reared whence, next June's rose shall bloom where our moons rose last year, just as pure:
Moons' ends match roses' ends: men by beasts' noses' ends mete sin's stink's cure.