I feared these present years, 
The middle twenties, 
When deftness disappears, 
And each event is 
Freighted with a source-encrusting doubt, 
And turned to drought. 


I thought: this pristine drive 
Is sure to flag 
At twenty-four or -five; 
And now the slag 
Of burnt-out childhood proves that I was right. 
What caught alight 


Quickly consumed in me, 
As I foresaw. 
Talent, felicity? 
These things withdraw, 
And are succeeded by a dingier crop 
That come to stop; 


Or else, certainty gone, 
Perhaps the rest, 
Tarnishing, linger on 
As second-best. 
Fabric of fallen minarets is trash. 
And in the ash 


Of what has pleased and passed 
Is now no more 
Than struts of greed, a last 
Charred smile, a clawed 
Crustacean hatred, blackened pride?of such 
I once made much. 


And so, if I were sure 
I have no chance 
To catch again that pure 
Unnoticed stance, 
I would calcine the outworn properties, 
Live on what is. 


But it dies hard, that world; 
Or, being dead, 
Putrescently is pearled, 
For I, misled, 
Make on my mind the deepest wound of all: 
Think to recall 


At any moment, states 
Long since dispersed; 
That if chance dissipates 
The best, the worst 
May scatter equally upon a touch. 
I kiss, I clutch, 


Like a daft mother, putrid 
Infancy, 
That can and will forbid 
All grist to me 
Except devaluing dichotomies: 
Nothing, and paradise.