O summer sun that siphons vigor deep
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from spine and gut until my will is gone
to ever rouse from wild unkempt lawn
on which I watch the shifting of the scene,
afford me more the stillness that I seek
to never act against your natural law,
to be content to lie and wonder on
at all the things that keep me from my sleep.
But desire never wins over decorum
in the ever-present game of good appearance
where teams are picked by eying rank and class,
so if I wish to make enough allowance
for social order thus imposed on nature's form
I have to suck it up and simply cut the grass.
of all misfortune, the worst kind of fate is to have been happy.