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[WRITTEN FOR THE HERALD.]
Queries to My Seventieth Year.
Approaching, nearing, curious,
Thou dim, uncertain spectre—bringest thou life
or death?
Strength, weakness, blindness, more paralysis
and heavier?
Or placid skies and sun? Wilt stir the waters
yet?
Or haply cut me short for good? Or leave me
here as now,
Dull, parrot-like and old with crack'd voice
harping, screeching?
WALT WHITMAN.
CAMDEN, May 1, 1888.
Notes
1. Reprinted in the "Sands at Seventy" annex to Leaves of Grass (1888). [back]