What lies beyond yonder blue,
though sometimes in a shroud,
seems better than I know true,
even on days without a cloud.
Haunts and vexes scurry about,
nagging, needling the daily task,
ever busy with woes and doubt,
forcing upon me a withering mask.
Dreams become mine own folly,
while hope visits without a gift,
for none are ever so melancholy,
as when the sands of old do sift.