I feel the dew, those lonely tears
for nights regrets and morning's fears,
As I watch the fog in its morose mask
Painting a mood and draining my cask
Until midmorn with its sun. I ask
'Why, my soul, should I give to bask
In the heat of day when the view is clear
And everyone's new self appears to appear
Replenished?"

The noonday warmth clears morning's mist
Although some vapor tends to persist
In clinging to that which we can't expose
That sorrow rooted in grievous repose
While biding its time till day is done
And the cooling earth says, "Hope's hard-won"
As it chills my flesh. "So," I cry with contempt
"As a humorist, you're a failed attempt."
"Let an optimist be heard."

Then the mournful rune of nightfall seeps
Again through shadows and quietly reaps
Another harvest, another pawn
To fill the cask I give to dawn.
Again ... to dawn.
Again ... to dawn.