Forgets the risk and is, as he has been,
The slowly-trailing, patient slug of Time,
Neither contemptible nor yet sublime,
Inching with pain along the beaten track;
Something is changed—the mind paints heavens and hells;
And I, their dizzy colors in my brain,
Wonder just what is “sane” and what “insane,”
And what one can be sure of—where we’re master
Of our own triumphs, or our own disaster...?
But that’s enough. Let’s talk of something else!