Toy Balloons

He tethers the drifting dreams of men,

Blown each into a perfect sphere

Of unadulterate color, clear

As moons gold on the darkness when

The nights grow cold; or poppies robed

With sunlight. Vendor, of your pity,

Do not sell these to children. See,

They are too slight to hold the globed

And maddening beauty of this breath

That bursts at finger touch. Frail dreams

Are for the old whose mirth blasphemes

All perpetuities save death,