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.