Beloved, we are always in the wrong, Handling so clumsily our stupid lives, Suffering too little or too long, Too careful even in our selfish loves: The decorative manias we obey Die in grimaces round us every day, Yet through their tohu-bohu comes a voice Which utters an absurd command - Rejoice.
Maybe the day will come when I can sit back and be content. . . . But until that day comes, I intend to stay in the batter's box - I don't let the big guys push me out of there anymore - and keep hammering away.