Would I like me on a Saturday's night?
I am less ugly and less arrogant.
Soft sheets do sleep the harsh chores of Sunday,
and Monday's rope fly all too high every week.

Never too cold the tasks of Tuesday bloom,
and sometimes its silver face gleams;
and never fair from mid Wednesday heaves,
by surprise, our Thursday's steady path, chopped;

but my short Friday shall not die
nor gain inconsistency of that undecided;
nor would its hours cry and rave on my bed,
when on forgotten books to read I sleep;

so long as days should triumph or time exists,
so long my week, feeds death to me.