ISSUE: Summer 1926
Fallen leaves skitter fleet
And elf-like down the street.
Winds have blown the moon awry,
It hangs a half-thing in the sky.
A sorry chimney-pot thing,
Sooty silver in a ring.
Time, the sweep, has brushed away
Half of it . . .Alack-a-day!
Nothing’s safe from the doom
Of Time’s broom.
Nothing—neither love nor life,
Not friend, not wife!
Time, ruthless chimney-sweep,
Smudges all we would keep.
After him we must go
And ever clean the house of woe!
