Golden in the morning, the dew drops in the air,
Against the emerald lawn in the sunlight runs the hare;
Yet often, ever, yearning for velvet mosses rare
Leveretian pinguid calling hangs sweetly next the pair.
Expectantly the dawning of the genethliac day
Exhales the fragrancing canephoras in the fray.
And yet the very presence of the gentle, roscid way
Invoked no kindly order in a cranium of clay.
Instead the rutilant arising of solaris as if a faun
Only the languid sonorities of the ending of a storm.
To have such unrememberance, to find my mind is torn,
Obumbrated, in the refulgence of this sauveolent dawn!
So hangs my head in sadness, forsaken and forlorn
As now the bold fritillary upon an April’s morn!