But trauma we don't collect
In jars, blessèd new waning
'Sif moonlight though oft present,
Yet cautious dew were guiding
Waxed t' reprove of fruits ample,
Ripe, without a tree's plea'ng roots,
Listless dirt -- heads not dreamful --
Worms ate th' purer till it droops.
Now cars pass by their torches
To pretend that life must swoop
As quickly, fast lit matches
Died the moon three fathers took.
