That is my being, the madness of an unaccustomed mood.

... but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight

I dread no more the first white in my hair, Or even age itself, the easy shoe, The cane, the wrinkled hands, the special chair: Time, doing this to me, may alter too My anguish, into something I can bear

A ghost in marble of a girl you knew Who would have loved you in a day or two.

That which has quelled me, lives with me, Accomplice in catastrophe.

What should I be but just what I am?

Childhood is not from birth to a certain age and at a certain age. The child is grown, and puts away childish things. Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.