The Dawn loses sleep over the creaking of Tithonus,
although she no longer knows what he chirps about.
He last said he loves her still, before at last
the form of an insect took him over--
Does it matter? It all now sounds like recrimination:
Why? and Why? and Why?
The problem was hers: her nonfatal decision
to prolong his thread in length but not
to preserve his form. She forgot and so,
unevenly yoked, she glowed with aura celestial
as he dwindled to a shrivelled husk.
And now his ceaseless calling haunts her
both sleepless night and working day.
She sighs and admits another mercy--more for
herself but perhaps also for he--and turns him loose.
He can not be a god, but he can be free
and serenade another.
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