Lovers are blithe, and weary with joy, and poised by ease. Wear on their soul marks the years, the untiring years, And when the tireless tire Their lies are honeyed and giving and true, “For I grow old and stale and bored,”

Now I am not alone, Just less, More abstract in mind, Less you or I than people, Fewer springs than seasons, Knowing less and being infinitely wiser.

The air is pale and worn

And lacking the essence of anything

But very modern and often brown

And public

And I wonder what I think about that

I grow old with the turn of a page

Learning the youth of other men

Who strained the virgin years

Of life untold

Never owing hope a second's worth

Of intermission.

You presume to measure a Man by his lack,

By the creak of his will,

Well-starched, well-pressed,

And the girdle that binds his loins;

The life he spares

Through passions scarce,

It’s a quarter to 7 and the draught runs cold,

I store my day on legal sheets,

Bide my time and count the words,

And count them with no small measure of contempt,