What's done? What's done? Day advances day under the clock's gun. . . . So little's left to do but die and rot, Whistling operatic lieder on my solitary cot. Romans knew the days but trooped to zero Teaching kindergarteners mortuary rhymes, Heroes paused at their redeeming crimes Defined by something, something against erasing Time. We aim at one overweening abstract: Truth: A volcano that we forge to raise the roof, And miss the little deity Pity Saucering stale milk to a crippled kitty. When once we've sighed ourselves asleep: "ëTis done, ëTis done," there'll be no dream that needs "Te Deum."