12 August 2005 | Vol. 5, No. 2

To His Watch

Mortal my mate, bearing my rock-a-heart

Warm beat with cold beat company, shall I

Earlier or you fail at our force, and lie

The ruins of, rifled, once a world of art?

The telling time our task is; time's some part,

Not all, but we were framed to fail and die—

One spell and well that one. There, ah thereby

Is comfort's carol of all or woe's worst smart.