One day I am full of ambition–
No goal is quite out of my reach;
And every ideal and tradition
Has the bloom of a sun-ripened peach
To be plucked and enjoyed at my leisure.
Existence has sparkle and glow
That the world might share it like treasure
Left to it eons ago.
But another, my spirits go plumbing
The soul-tortured depths of despair:
There is utter futility thrumming
Through every gray lungful of air.
But why–why this odd vacillation?
Are such folk with talent imbued?
Or is it a mere indication
Of, rather, unfixed lassitude?
by Ray Romine Saturday, February 12, 1944