In one hand
beauty I hold
in the other
sorrow untold-

I'm dying
in this late winter
Rome is not home
to return to England never-

love is beyond my reach
fate is too cruel
I'm fading away in illness
with nothing to fulfil-

no epitaph will I write
only my poetry will speak for me
ah,  how sweet will that moment of release be
when I fall into my final sleep-- so gladly

Regard me
not seriously
only lightly-
this best defines me

The moment
I become self-conscious
I'd no longer
be spontaneous-

learn from the kids
in their free happy self-abandon
they don't watch themselves
and their every act is resplendent!

Don't 'bring me to books'
my collection has over 500
my library can hold no more
this would cause me much grievous dread

You are no loser
you were never a competitor

No door of life

is closed to me-

I have carved

an all-purpose key

Neither excess
    nor deficiency
    this is equilibrium
    the point of rest


*. 'Doctrine of the Mean' in the Sage's THE ANALECTS, 600 BCE