The punts on the Cam go gliding, gliding,

again the green water and fresh willow leaves.

Every spring the same laughter from different faces.

My flowers are dying one by one

in a vase without water

and all the figures in dancing clay

weaving riot in glaze

prancing song and music for a delighted gaze

bring no joy to the flaccid leaves

nor bent tearless blooms.

I have no sap to give, no camel's hump,

my tears are salt,

these words paint misery on an empty screen.