How hot does the sun feel on toiled palms
     within old dreams that drift, swing and sway?
Or does it not matter in the end anyway;
     there may be victory and wine and ill singing

Beneath trees, Olive, Oak or London Plane,
     perhaps I’ll be again alone; scorched, drunk
Rolling, rolling, yet strolling, no running,
     muscle steers bone, and will and mighty act;

I think that I know its every ridge and crater;
     disregard weakness and remain weak thereon,
In the spring there will be birds, butterflies;
     A figure lifts as an olympiad, yonder, again.