"Insanity for sure before he's thirty-five,"

The psych instructor whispered once of you.

Watching the small weak mouth, the bulging brow,

The wild, deep, suffering eyes, I know it's true.

What a worse fate you'll be delivered from

At last in a weary downhill dozen years:

Egotism run amuck and slaying you

With a million wild hopeless wants and fears;

The limelight, the praise, love that you so need.,

That you demand and crave, slipping away;;

The admiration you do not deserve

Going no power in you to make it stay;

The hells of finding what you really are,

Weak helpless erratic all these will go;

All the poor pretence your pity of yourself

Changed to blank utter peace, It's better so.