It’s a bummer to complain,
especially in poetry’s domain,
where folks want to be lifted high,
helped to loving and to aspire
to transcendent nature and the rest
and bring out what in us is best.
But can one pretend that one is jolly
When all they can see is melancholy?
O turn your face to look at nature
and from its gifts select the pure.
Give up. for now, in finding love
and beauty in mankind’s trove,
for greed and sickly human pride
are rampant now and ride the tide.