My imagination must end,
Though it may be the best thing I’ve got;
I must stop thinking life will get better.
It will not.
My imagination must cease—
Believing life will improve
Gives me no peace.
The future is what most of us love;
Hope makes us almost happy—
But if I accept things will get worse,
Like this young, calm, prose
Thudding into verse,
Despite my deep familiarity with poetry—
If I can throw out hope and block the future out,
Now will be my ultimate happiness,
This easy present, my joy.
Tomorrow, I die. And so it is best
To let me dear imagination rest.