Many things perplex me and leave me troubled,
Many things are locked away in the white book of
Never to be opened by me.
The starr’d leaves are silently turned,
And the mooned leaves;
And as they are turned, fall the shadows of life and death.
Perplexed and troubled,
I light a small light in a small room,
The lighted walls come closer to me,
The familiar pictures are clear.
I sit in my favourite chair and turn in my
The tiny pages of my own life, whereon so little is written,
And hear at the eastern window the pressure of a long wind,
From I know not where.
How many times have I sat here,
How many times will I sit here again,
Thinking these same things over and over in
As a child says over and
The first word he has learned to say.
