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.