Intrepid thoughts stir settled ambition
that's flavour has been vexed by tradition.
Expectant deeds and moves within the board
are hummed all round by men of conform’s Lord.
Success sees Future’s dull and sordid face;
its lightly blushing cheeks pardoned by grace -
No smiling, only weakness in its wake.
It speaks in crownish tongue, "Now dreams to break!"
But could a trembling bridge prompt quick traverse -
the reaching of a place with walls of verse?
A wordless track across life-wood could be
a stable yet achy activity.
I please my heart not minding their matters,
to have some world; they're just tardy hatters.