No man is ready, though he may be old,

For mocking laughter, or for sudden rain,

Or news of the devil too abruptly told,

Or faces well-forgotten, seen again.

No man prepares himself to meet the day

That finds him feeble in a stranger's eyes:

The panic mind has nothing right to say,

Unused to all extravagant surprise.

If only he had listened to his heart,

Or had believed in myths and music more.

If only he had trusted at the start

Dust-dancers in the sunlight on the floor.

He might be ready, had he found in books

More than is printed on the open page,

Or even recognized the sidelong looks

That lovely chance cast at him in his cage.

He might be ready, had he ears to hear,

As winter went, the signal of the spring.

The pity is that ways were always near

Of being not surprised at anything.