In a Hundred Things You Are Lost
In a hundred small things you are lost,
Dimmed memories each daybreak’s cost.
In the fret of noon you do not dwell,
As hours with dreary trifles swell.
From the hues of twilight you are chased,
For thoughts are by no quiet graced.
Yet aging days do adjourn their siege,
Where past doth seamless present breach.
Though lights on night’s canvas gaily prance,
You appear when I starward glance.
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