DISAPPOINTMENTS
In the Valley of Nadir lies a deep, black pool,
And it mirrors only rainy harvest moons;
In the fringes of its grasses are little bleached, white bones,
And broken, faded ribbons, from gaudy, pricked balloons.
Restless shadows stumble ’round it, through the hot nights and the cool,
And their crippled feet are weighted down with stones;
Sometimes an echo whispers of golden, summer noons,
But you only hear the wind there, when it moans.