Whenever you see
me—bumbling
down the street, I
assure you,
I'm only about half as
distracted
as I look.
It's actually just almost
exactly the
opposite.
It's just that—most
evenings, I
already feel myself—such
a concentrated
poor husk of bulk,
a prematurely
frightened and terrible
old widower;
all those blithe ideas
from before
I knew her—now ringing
as ponder-
ously many, as difficult
to imagine
hurling into motion, and alas
as equally
cold, dull, and relentless
as every last
bell that has tolled
since after.
