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On the night the last star winks out and dies,
That is when I'll ponder mortality.
Till then, I'll envision a future unbounded;
And beyond? Let the world run amok and rot.
Between the now and the unseen end,
I drift--unknown and unrequited--
A purposeless person whose nebular dreams
Never condensed and flared into brightness.
I hear peers discuss their well-earned achievements,
And I ask myself: Wasn't I better than them?
Without the conspicuous commendations,
Don't I deserve commensurate honors?
I advance a mere three out of fivescore feet
And ebb the other ninety-seven;
In the twilight of my luminescence,
I glow without heat at the close of dark days.