And this you call work—its a carefree
Existence! To catch, ere it’s flown,
What music has privately hinted,
And jestingly call it my own.
And using another’s blithe scherzo
For lines far too languid to run,
To swear your poor heart is lamenting
In fields that smile back at the sun.
And later, when pinewoods play trappist,
To do what bold eavesdroppers dare,
While the fog’s impalpable curtain
Hangs vaguely as smoke on the air,
Not feeling one qualm of conscience,
I take things from left and right.
Life is sly, but I take something from it,
And all from the stillness of night.
[1959]

KORREKTUREN ÃœBERMITTELN