Less purposed reason, what remains is
The faint discord of softly falling water,
A brief slander of expectant seasons
Cut too short by shears of moiral law.
That homeless madness wrecks black carnage
Beneath conventioned words of cultivated gravity
Like the jester’s bold washed cacophony,
By cold design to eclipse red truth with lies.
When only that same cold design might serve
Borne in tainted hands sworn here to solace,
Must Desire bow now before Need,
And anguished, sever one’s only comfort.