I wince to think of all the follies we
In stupid but assured sincerity
Conceived and executed. Silly us
To have imagined there might be a way
That we could not have co-desired thus.
But then again, we are but mortal clay,
And folly is our element: to dream
That things could be exactly as they seem
To human, frail, self-interested eyes.
For our own worries blinded us from seeing
What took no other viewers by surprise,
Indeed, to them seemed central to our being.
So I must shrink from thinking of that past
And live in joy that folly did not last.
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