Solitudes at Sixty
Sexagenarian solitudes, I find,
Are somewhat stagnant, motiveless and slow:
Old friends arrive; but only to my mind,
Since their earth-farings ended years ago.
Beloved or valued ghosts, these reappear
At my peculiar prompting. Known by heart,
Finite impersonations, learnt by ear,
Their voices talk in character and depart.
They, once my wise and faithful, have no being:
No supersensual agency can bring
Those presences from silence and unseeing:
They dwell secure from world's importuning
Meanwhile myself sits with myself agreeing
That to be sixty is no easy thing.
Are somewhat stagnant, motiveless and slow:
Old friends arrive; but only to my mind,
Since their earth-farings ended years ago.
Beloved or valued ghosts, these reappear
At my peculiar prompting. Known by heart,
Finite impersonations, learnt by ear,
Their voices talk in character and depart.
They, once my wise and faithful, have no being:
No supersensual agency can bring
Those presences from silence and unseeing:
They dwell secure from world's importuning
Meanwhile myself sits with myself agreeing
That to be sixty is no easy thing.
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