I have so many doubts about myself,
So many worries that I can't control.
I try to heave them up onto the shelf
And leave them there, but to my constant dole
They will return, and I cannot be rid
Of any of them by my own endeavor.
The secret of removing them is hid
From me, and might remain this way forever
But that I know that you will come again
And tell me fondly how I am a fool,
Reminding me that I, like other men,
Should not be subject to a perfect rule,
But judge myself by being what I can
And in that way, I may pass for a man.
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