Extinct are all my cradle days, The owl-rocking nights of mother-love When the moon looked in at the open bays From the forever-in-shadow grove. Dead and clamped as brakes the rolling Races between we three furious brothers Freestyling downhill until our voices Dwindled on out of grace. And dumb beneath mournful ocean blues Squall the sung promises of lovers; Deep among reefs, like griefs they sink Which no one shall recover. But what of today, this indomitable day Arrayed fragrant as the sun? What rocking, what racing, what graces may Stay, more than what had come?