The fervid fumes of a summer noon;
the opaque zest of a sky stark,
crept like synonyms of 'spark'
into the eyes and made me swoon.
Faraway from trills and tune,
under Humility's archaic arc,
I napped, a sapling sans a bark;
I slept with my silver spoon.
But Aye! The Succubus came so soon,
drowning dreams and limping a lark;
dooming the day to a dismal dark.
And Oh! The Sibyls no longer croon!
Lost are those nimble Nymphs that hark.
Yet in its face I float; I hope to paint an Ark.
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