(based on 'Ulysses' by Tennyson)
It profits little that a seasoned youth
In this moldering place, amid these sterile walls,
Does fret and idle his childhood away
Knotted in the snare of troubled lives,
which pass, and stare, and sit, and feel not me.
I will not cease my vifor; I will be
All that I will be. All things I have known
Quickly, have tired quickly, both with those
Living my life, and not; in truth, and in
Dreamy visions in thoughtless eyes looking
Away from here. I will be become a name;
For always empty for a noble cause
For much I have hungered; a weakened heart,
And substance, firmness, essence, presence
Myself amid, and dissolved in it all.
I am apart from all I have known;
And all future is a space aloft as
There through shines an unforeseen world, that shrinks
Infinitesimal, lost as I reach
How sad it is to die
To crumble untested, and never freed!
As though to sigh were breath! Sigh blowing sigh
Were all nothing, and still nothing to me
Releases breath; but every moment saves
From that eternal graveyard some lost life,
For I have not yet what I will becomes
in life past by, that which I'm not I will be:
One pulsing for of solitary will,
Kept weak by youth and age, but alive in heart
to live, to stretch, to fly, and not to fail.
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