Oh well...

Spring is too long when left to brood. I’ve wandered beyond “should” & “would”;
I’ve made it well into the “musts” – so many notebooks gathering dust.
It’s all octameters you see: it’s how I think when the fancy
takes me though I’ve nothing to tell – so I sit as dumb as a bell
desperate to be shaken, &, well ...

Spring is too long in getting old. I’m not getting younger, I guess,
I guess there is no time for jests if blind Fortune favours the bold.
I would She did not think so low of all of us who, just like snow
melt a little with every touch. I would not even ask so much
as to be broken in, &, well ...

It’s all that I can think of now. Truth is: I cannot think enough.
I dare not even try to bluff nor yet to feign interest somehow.
I write my verse & think “Oh well”; “oh well” is all I think about.
“Oh well” to life’s a silent shout while I feel the mind giving out
yet all I can say is “oh well.”