Nox Oculis

R. Burnside Potter

The Old Amateur

    What matters it, that weary and alone,
    I sit and think of things I might have done ?
    What matters it that wife and children shun
    In me a dreamer, a mere rolling stone ?
    What matters it that rustic neighbors fear
    In me a madman, all because I know
    The motions of the comets and the flow
    Of time, that travels on from year to year ?
    What matters it? There are far better men
    To count the days and aeons, as they run,
    And weigh this planet that we dwell upon,
    But yet, I feel it matters somewhat, when --
    What matters it ? -- I see, across the wire,
    The transit of the star of my desire.

    R. Burnside Potter

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