W. S., to himself
Your old catastrophes queued to recur,
And vital fire contracted to a hole,
Can you go back in dreams to what you were,
And try anew the unenacted role?
Dead pleasures fading to a wasted blur,
Desire perversely lives, a glowing coal
That stale regret but pricks you on to stir,
Revision of the past your only goal.
So little left could hardly come to less:
The clinging succubus that made you prey,
And yet possesses you, makes you regress;
The sleepless demon that forced you to say
"Yes" when you meant "No," "No" when you meant "Yes,"
Still makes a day of night, a night of day.
Portrait of Shakespeare from http://quotationsbook.com/quotes/author/photos/6633
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