As I Sit Writing Here
As I sit writing here, sick and grown old, Not my least burden is that dullness of the years, querilities, Ungracious glooms, aches, lethargy, constipation, whimpering ennui , May filter in my daily songs.
My Canary Bird
Did we count great, O soul, to penetrate the themes of mighty books, Absorbing deep and full from thoughts, plays, speculations? But now from thee to me, caged bird, to feel thy joyous warble, Filling the air, the lonesome room, the long forenoon, Is it not just as great, O soul?
Queries to My Seventieth Year
Approaching, nearing, curious, Thou dim, uncertain spectre—bringest thou life or death? Strength, weakness, blindness, more paralysis and heavier? Or placid skies and sun? Wilt stir the waters yet? Or haply cut