Ballade on Experience

I AM not quite as lonely as a cloud,
My heart is not quite like a singing bird,
My head is neither bloody nor unbowed;
This state of things is totally absurd,
For all the poets of whom I ever heard
Were either phthisical or deep in debt;
Still, these delights grow riper when deferred —
Everything has not happened to me yet.

When I am wrapped up in my natty shroud,
Nailed in a shiny coffin, and interred,
The little worms and parasites will crowd
To graze upon me in a hungry herd.
I shall not speak, I shall not say a word,
I shall not utter one reproach or threat,
For from their actions this may be inferred —
Everything has not happened to me yet.

Within the tent of Suleiman bin Daoud
The high-born cats sat round about and purred.
One read the psalms of David out aloud.
One softly played the rebeck, and a third
Sniffed at a bowl of steaming punch, and stirred
The amber liquor with a spoon of jet.
I was not present when this scene occurred —
Everything has not happened to me yet.

Most noble Prince, empanoplied and spurred,
Do not despair because we have not met;
Although my back is bent, my vision blurred,
Everything has not happened to me yet.