It doesn’t matter. If I had some news⁠— News from that fog⁠— I’ll get the hypo, sure, Unless I watch myself, waiting for news. I can’t afford to get the hypo now, I’ve got too much to do. Political years, Housekeeping years of marrying and begetting And losing, too, the children and the town, The wife, the house, the life, the joy and grief, The profound wonder still behind it all.

I had a friend who married and was happy. But something haunted him that haunted me Before he did, till he could hardly tell What his own mind was, for the brooding veil And immaterial horror of the soul Which colors the whole world for men like that.