I know I might have lived in such a way

As to have suffered only pain:

Loving not man nor dog;

Not money, even; feeling

Toothache perhaps, but never more than an hour away

From skill and novocaine;

Making no contacts, dealing with life through Agents, drinking one cocktail, betting two dollars, wearing raincoats in the rain.

Betrayed at length by no one but the fog

Whispering to the wing of the plane.

“Fountain,” I have cried to that unbubbling well, “I will not drink of thy water!” Yet I thirst

For a mouthful of—not to swallow, only to rinse my mouth in—peace.

And while the eyes of the past condemn,

The eyes of the present narrow into assignation. And—worst—

The young are so old, they are born with their fingers crossed; I shall get no help from them.