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By Emmanuel Williams

August 10, 2026

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Is one always this tense on the eve of his fortune

Invariably tossed betwixt odd things that please

Expecting improvement, a wave from the ocean

The energy set in, potent, and lean

In the storm of expectance and uncomely pain

Sat still in his dwelling, a nightbird twixt days

It is ‘if one has missed the oncoming train

Yet fell overboard thinking of the coming if’t may

In his shoes his toes clench in his eyes his lids lift

If evermore he should wait lest forsake fortune’s name

Bury gold, ignore diamond, burn the emerald’s gift

Evermore time doth stall him, his least favorite game

If fortune shall be, then come hence, and come smartly

And strain nevermore this fair patience kept hardly

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