Was it a morning or an afternoon
That has such things to answer for!]
We walked along, under the April trees,
With their uncertainties
Struggling intention that becomes intense.    
I wonder if it is too late or soon
For the resolution that our lives demand.
With a sudden vision of incompetence
I seize her hand In silence and we walk on as before.    

And apparently the world has not been changed;
Nothing has happened that demands revision.
She smiles, as if, perhaps, surprised to see
So little her composure disarranged:
It is not that life has taken a new decision—  
It has simply happened so to her and me.

And yet this while we have not spoken a word
It becomes at last a bit ridiculous
And irritating.
All the scene’s absurd!
She and myself and what has come to us    
And what we feel, or not;
And my exasperation.
Round and round, as in a bubbling pot That will not cool
Simmering upon the fire, piping hot
Upon the fire of ridicule.    
--Up a blind alley, stopped with broken walls
Papered with posters, chalked with childish scrawls!—

But if we could have given ourselves the slip
What explanations might have been escaped—
No stumbling over ends unshaped.  
We are helpless. Still . .  . it was unaccountable . .  . odd...
Could not one keep ahead, like ants or moles?
Some day, if God—
But then, what opening out of dusty souls!