For me; no day is marked with red or black:
Events–eventicles–are few, as these,
The sighted school of bobbing porpoises,
The flying-fish when first I saw them leap
And flash like swallows over the blue deep;
The rose-red sunset, or the Sunday duff,
Or–but enumeration cries “Enough.”
There is no Mary in the Atlantic, true,
Nor cellared bookshop to be foraged through.
But as I said, at least I’ve found the sun