Does amusing harbor any muse?
Does amazing tangle in a maze?
Can a riddle clarify a ruse?
Can a blessing blossom in a blaze?

Is the wonder woven in a wound?
Is the passion passing into pain?
Has the grounded grievance’s ground ruined?
Has the plainest pleading turned to plain?

Is a haunting heavy like a haunt?
Is a glimmer gleaming like a glass?
Does a taunting terror learn to taunt?
Does the passage perish as we pass?

Does a shadow shiver like a shade?
Does a clever cutter softly cleave?
Is a bravery broken like a blade?
Can a grief as grimly learn to grieve?

Like a flash, does flaring feed a flame?
Like a tide, does turning test the will?
Is a naming naked as a name?
Does a chilling challenge bring a chill?

Like a dream, does dreaming drift away?
Like a spark, does sparking start the sight?
Does a dawning dazzle like the day?
Does a nightly notion need the night?

Will the musing master what was made?
Will the maze encompass every mark?
While the blessing blunders in the blade,
And the blaze is broken by the dark?

Yet the wound is waking in the word,
  And the pain is painted on the page:

Every riddle reasonably heard,
  Every passion parsed upon the stage.