Some hours we sing, and must make merry there

Some hours we sing, and must make merry there:
Some hours we stare the tides and bones of man
And chase off fevered feelings to dark air:
Some hours we do the best, and best is all we can:

But who are you to judge me on my dallied tune,
Who are you to shape me to your vision’s world ? -
I’ll die – and when I do it’ll not be soon! -
But only when the pot is fin’lly hurled.

For then the hours will play out their dim light,
Then God’s hand will reach and touch what’s true;
Then will reck’ning be made of my fight,
And all the hours I lived be counted through:

For I am nothing, but nothings live and die -
And though a nothing, I’ll shriek out MY own cry!

2/3/99