The Vexed Mind

At the end of the day,

Upon the evening's rhyme

All secrets went dancing

And seemed sublime

The beauteous end of waking.

For a sentry has easy pay

Than a vexed mind,

Which twirls on a spoon

That feeds regrets behind

And gruesome times ahead.

And such a torment is vile,

Whom glory may yet praise.

For making soldiers long

For their love's dear embrace.

'ere in oblivion they be slain.

Such a torture is sweet,

Whom God grants days

Yet feigns peace

And in repose yearns

More than descending grace.

Longs for more than winter's warm hearth

And death's beautous escape.