what's o'clock
195
Making a coloured rose-bud of the sun.
Your sneers, I think, would leave me well aware
Of something I might boast a bit of having;
Your smooth and pitiless content with what I do
Shows up each whorl and roughness in the grain
Of that harsh article I call my brain,
Of that queer heart all twisted like a shaving
I seldom fret about. So after being
Encumbered for a brief space by your roses
I think to find your subsequent composure
As apt and cheerful as a new disclosure
Broke suddenly across a weary seeing.
Your waning praise will mark a time of day,
And afternoon approaching finds my way
So far advanced, that's all. You are a stage
We reach at ten o'clock and twelve is age.
If I'm an episode, why so are you.
We'll make a kindliness of that—what else is there to do?
Your sneers, I think, would leave me well aware
Of something I might boast a bit of having;
Your smooth and pitiless content with what I do
Shows up each whorl and roughness in the grain
Of that harsh article I call my brain,
Of that queer heart all twisted like a shaving
I seldom fret about. So after being
Encumbered for a brief space by your roses
I think to find your subsequent composure
As apt and cheerful as a new disclosure
Broke suddenly across a weary seeing.
Your waning praise will mark a time of day,
And afternoon approaching finds my way
So far advanced, that's all. You are a stage
We reach at ten o'clock and twelve is age.
If I'm an episode, why so are you.
We'll make a kindliness of that—what else is there to do?
