I think I shall end by not feeling lonesome
only scoured by the lengthy light of everyone.
Nice, fine milk, the best of all milk.

Balancing the persuasive long pole
of friendship on a stone,
I think I shall end by not feeling lonesome.

I have lived and eaten simply.
I have leaned against the shape of handsome choices.
The almanac conceals a pasture you would like.

The universe is cast in consequences.
Draw my name in milk on canvas.
I doubt I shall and by not feeling lonesome,

But this is outrageous:
Come buy my ground ivy, come buy my water cresses.
The ink is wrong, but a battered almanac is not a heartless almanac.

But is it time to combine and speak out?
The day gazes helplessly at time.
I think I shall end by not feeling lonesome,
The pamphlets yellow, the milk also: the milk, the fine milk.