I do not dance enough.

I do not run naked in the rain.

I do not scream like a kettle’s whistle

At all the pressured pain.

I do not talk to strangers,

Or draw yellow angels in the snow.

I do not curse the cursed,

Or tell the stupid what they should know.

I wear well the pompous silence

Of the just and staid and nobly sad.

I will stew in this complete rationality

Until I go quite mad.