In our morning we walk, as in flimsy dream
And map our souls on to random personae
Drawn as scattered images and chance talk.
We are not just we but men fused together.
You see we are of the Shakespearean stage
Playing bit parts not germane to main plot.
What are we then, among autumn leaves,
Fallen and in heap, with the ripe red fruits,
Yet waiting for a gust of wind from west?