I Am Not the Sort of Man Who Can Be Known, O Beautiful One
I am not the sort of man who can be known, O beautiful one;
you can study a thousand years and not be nearly done,
and when at the end of a long and memory-forgotten age
you will have reached to the last volume's final page,
you will look back, and all the former books will be but dust
and those in steel covers will be fragmented to rust.
In that far future, amid great cities ruined and past,
perhaps you may think that you know me at last,
but the libraries of my volumes are like the heavens and their stars,
and you will have but begun on a journey long and far.
I am not the sort of man who can be known, O beautiful one,
though your study last the lifetime of a young and blazing sun.
Middle Age
The day of life is bright and clear
but drowsy is the air;
the breeze at times is cool on skin
but hot the sunlight-flare.
With half a day of work to do
I barely keep awake,
and all the energy I draw,
the laughing sunray takes.
When back I look to dewy dawn,
I wonder at the time
when breezes cool with vigor blessed
auroral lights sublime.
When futureward to evening dim
I look to day grown old,
I wonder at my lassitude
in brilliant noonday gold.
But noon is now, and over-hot;
I sweat and want to sleep,
and wonder how to last the day
and fall into a heap.
