Picnics were made for rain
I’ll put it into this ballad...

Such furious haste
take awhile to grow older...

Nothing reduces
to groveling crybaby...

Had I the time to tell you all that I have...
we could spend a good month in genial discourse...

The Rialto’s too busy to catch your breath
amid hustling tourists clogging the wall...

The boy traveled far
hearing the Soul of the World...

Your lips taught me the first knowledge...

In your peach sundress wander this field of...
always remember our fine April afternoon...

stolen is the smile
from the sky leaving neither...

You who cast your living snobbery against
our years long past ought to bear it lightly...

Anticipation
before the bird beats its wings...

I know where all the time goes
though twenty years sped by in a flash...