What shall I do with this absurdity—
O heart, O troubled heart—this caricature.
Decrepit age that has been tied upon me
As upon a dog’s tail.
Never had I more
Excited, passionate, fantastical
Imagination, nor an ear and eye
That more expected the impossible—
No, not in boyhood when with rod and fly
Or the humbler worm I climbed Ben Bufcen’s back
And had the livelong summer day to spend.
It seems that I must bid the Muse go pack.
Choose Plato and Plotinus for a friend
Until imagination, ear and eye
Can be content with argument and deal
In abstract things; or be derided by
A sort of battered kettle at the heel.