Over milk that I know to be spilt,
And whenever gold happens to glitter
I make up my mind that its gilt;
Yet the riddle of life grows no clearer,
And still broken-hearted I yearn
For the season that never draws nearer—
When a worm may take courage and turn.
And if for a moment I wander
Into themes more profound and abstruse,
To note that the sauce for a gander