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.