Maturity
A stationary sense . . . as, I suppose,
I shall have, till my single body grows
    Inaccurate, tired;
Then I shall start to feel the backward pull
Take over, sickening and masterful —
    Some say, desired.
And this must be the prime of life . . . I blink,
As if at pain; for it is pain, to think
    This pantomime
Of compensating act and counter-act,
Defeat and counterfeit, makes up, in fact,
    My ablest time.
