There's mud on my boots. Yet
I know I have not really lived today.
The dusk gave me regret;
The shafts of pink assumed the task of that
Which modifies and ridicules the grey.
Time passes like the stream.
The chasms seem to loom up all around.
I felt the fear of dreams
And all the things that that cause me to react
Against the popular consent. Profound
Are thoughts which give us pause
And now illuminate my Cambridge skies.
The bare trees stand, perhaps, despite the fact
That wind and rain and grey can be the cause
For choking in the throat, and tears in eyes.
Cambridge, Late November 1992
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