So, into the pit of the sun I flung and finally let fly, and let bygones go by Oppressed under weary sigh, did I cry that this death I could not die was a lie. Now, at last this brutal noon, upon whence my direst lover should swoon, begat a thought both too late and too soon. That property of passion with it's toll so great that loomed in limbo swelled so fast and fragile Like a pin-cushion balloon. This fauna fantastica stretched and elastic was less Zeus's swan But, a loon.