Listen: I know the hundredweight
which presses down your sparrow soul
and how you'd leave before first light
to wing a mile in coolest stealth
so that, egg-like, beneath your legs
would hatch the yellow wealth of day
and you above, the mover, free
to turn and plot your body's drift;
instead of which you plod the path
which others mapped for your poor feet
and let the beat of duller hearts
mark out the rhythm of each day:
I know, I know: loss falls this way.