Fickle
Sooner will a man the winds ensnare, and sooner still
With tiny bits of sunny rays his pocket fill;
Sooner will he, with a threat, the stormy oceans calm,
Or grasp the world immense and keep it in his palm;
Sooner will he, hurting not himself, a bonfire slap,
Or all the clouds upon the sky with a net entrap;.
Sooner will in bitter tears the Mount of Etna drown,
And sooner will a deaf-mute sing, a downright clown
Utter something wise; and sooner will the wayward fate