Night’s Self-Interview
The day is done, one more chapter, child,
What Season is it, and what will thy become,
Can thou find love once more, chilled breast,
Art thou a fair home for her, is thy care good,
It is time to rest, the vanished day, has left us now,
What feelings remain will wash away,
Each desire a process of churning instinct,
What of your mind, that poor toil of hope,
Life seeps back into the stars, these dreams,
Will find a disturbance in every passing scene,
Some strange labor half-done, people left and gone,
Faces of our lonely grief, new smiles to praise,
Time stooping low with a backache, old man’s hour,
What of all that we once were, shall we change,
This robe of flesh for another more able mask,
Try a different role in space and time, finally,
Yet I am glad to seek this short repose,
And rest my cares from the tragedy and stress of life,
For just a few hours, what will tomorrow bring,
That I might not succeed, little shames I have survived,
The Sea of life is a busy place, fit for pirates and anarchy,
Shall I become like them, conform to this corruption,
Simply to be a Lion watching over my cubs in my den,
Or will I become a tarnished name in the barren room of history,
Do I seek too much to be great, that I might come to nothing,
Engaged in a war with myself which haunts me before sleep,
Such is the endurance of youth, which weeps for future sins,
Or hunts the beloved in our own picturesque forms, idealized! | 
