Dreams

So little left to say, much less to do;
It leaves me empty and unsatisfied
As if the better part of me had died
And left the rest alone, to grow anew
Those instincts which, in time, contribute to
A higher moral calling. In my pride
I made myself this way, purged the inside
Of all that mattered, while my ennui grew.
What shall a bored husk say of life, or make?
Should I despair, or is that too much work?
Have I the strength to act at all, or not?
I wake up with an introspective jerk
And give my head a cobweb-clearing shake
Recalling all the good things I have got.