Like Mithridates I've drunk poison straight
to steel my guts against life's miseries;
I've meditated on ignobe fate,
pre-tasted pain, sampled calamities;
It's pulled my eyebrows down, and lined my cheeks
around the corners of accustomed frowns;
it's fixed my eyes asquint, so that for weeks
sometimes I see no colors, only browns.
Maybe it's made me strong--but now I find
my tongue's so burned with vinegar and bile
it's hard to taste the sweets, and to my mind
it's easier to grimace than to smile.
With curses simpler than a prayer to speak,
I wonder if it's better to be weak.
1 comment:
Thanks! Please post again! :)
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