I hear the roof; It’s beckoning.
Its siren song sounds often.
I could resist it yesteryear;
I see my willpow’r soften.

For Blake, the stars for order stood,
A rigidness; a stricture.
For me however, they’re merely fires
That give no warmth; a picture

Of ineffective loveliness,
A smile with unkind eyes.
One day, no doubt, I’ll venture up
Again beneath their skies

It’s funny how, when I ascend
I’ll sure be near to God
If I’m high up, or if I plunge
Hurtling into the sod

Escaping up? Despairing down?
The roof’s stale, dank, cold breath
Is on my neck. With life like like yours,
It says, why not try death?

That’s hard to answer, truth to tell.
I’d welcome sweet relief.
I long for rest. I’ve pour’d me out
For sake of my belief

That all these beings crowded ‘round
Deserve my best, my love,
My heartfelt thanks, my loving hugs;
They’re all so far above

My dingy, misbegotten self!
O Hearken! Hear it call!
The summertime is over now.
Excuse me. Time to fall.