The Old Amateur

What matters it, that weary and alone,
I sit and think of things I might have done ?
What matters it that wife and children shun
In me a dreamer, a mere rolling stone ?
What matters it that rustic neighbors fear
In me a madman, all because I know
The motions of the comets and the flow
Of time, that travels on from year to year ?
What matters it? There are far better men
To count the days and aeons, as they run,
And weigh this planet that we dwell upon,
But yet, I feel it matters somewhat, when --
What matters it ? -- I see, across the wire,
The transit of the star of my desire.

R. Burnside Potter