And there you are<br /> on the shore,<br /><br />fitful and thoughtful, trying<br /> to attach them to an idea —<br /> some news of your own life.<br /> But the lilies<br /><br />are slippery and wild—they are<br /> devoid of meaning, they are<br /> simply doing,<br /> from the deepest<br /><br />spurs of their being,<br /> what they are impelled to do<br /> every summer.<br /> And so, dear sorrow, are you.