The patient good of going nowhere In the balloon of the mind (That something, half air, half real) Is, I declare, a laudable poem In the tone of time (that somewhen Of buzzing was and will-be). To live in circles, going nowhere In a clime that is timeless. . . . This circuitous circumlocution Of life, is life. And the poem of life is patient, good, And of articulate merit Like a muffled chime; the poem, Disturbed by chilly ripples from the mind, Hushes the shivering cymbal. Hush, hush, between heart and thumb Into a silence not yet manifest. And yet. . . . There's a music there, too, a stubborn thrub.