Thrasher's nachtlied.

It is not that I do not believe
or fail to grieve: justly, I have
outlived that which I strived for
and mewing now, with the cold flocks, reach far,
far, out for what shoals, what ulterior
banks, for--barren boatsman--what shore?

"My son" I want to say but classics sieve
my over-used explanations. Dust of nations
rises to my eyes like tears. Impatience
blinds; sentiment provides addictive
start-holes while wholly unpredicted
a voice too near proclaims you can be denied to me.

Muddy, stung as by wasps, must I choke back even piety?
With so much yet unsaid I think to see the moon's rim leave.

"ripae ulterioris amore"