He looked at the sad-faced sliver,
chin out, lips curled into a frown,
and wondered what had gone down
to cause such sadness; did it quiver?
The days passed, the face not a sliver,
but had grown full and very round —
still the lips were curled into a frown.
The moon remained still; it was his quiver.
This season or that, life does still shiver
for him who experienced the sad clown
of sorrow and loss, life up and life down.
Still he swims on in experience’s river.