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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=481204" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Next Day</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Moving from Cheer to Joy, from Joy to All,<br>I take a box<br>And add it to my wild rice, my Cornish game hens.<br>The slacked or shorted, basketed, identical<br>Food-gathering flocks<br>Are selves I overlook. Wisdom, said William James,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Is learning what to overlook. And I am wise<br>If that is wisdom.<br>Yet somehow, as I buy All from these shelves<br>And the boy takes it to my station wagon,<br>What I've become<br>Troubles me even if I shut my eyes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When I was young and miserable and pretty<br>And poor, I'd wish<br>What all girls wish: to have a husband,<br>A house and children. Now that I'm old, my wish<br>Is womanish:<br>That the boy putting groceries in my car</div><div style="margin:10px 0">See me. It bewilders me he doesn't see me.<br>For so many years<br>I was good enough to eat: the world looked at me<br>And its mouth watered. How often they have undressed me,<br>The eyes of strangers!<br>And, holding their flesh within my flesh, their vile</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Imaginings within my imagining,<br>I too have taken<br>The chance of life. Now the boy pats my dog<br>And we start home. Now I am good.<br>The last mistaken,<br>Ecstatic, accidental bliss, the blind</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Happiness that, bursting, leaves upon the palm<br>Some soap and water--<br>It was so long ago, back in some Gay<br>Twenties, Nineties, I don't know . . . Today I miss<br>My lovely daughter<br>Away at school, my sons away at school,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My husband away at work--I wish for them.<br>The dog, the maid,<br>And I go through the sure unvarying days<br>At home in them. As I look at my life,<br>I am afraid<br>Only that it will change, as I am changing:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I am afraid, this morning, of my face.<br>It looks at me<br>From the rear-view mirror, with the eyes I hate,<br>The smile I hate. Its plain, lined look<br>Of gray discovery<br>Repeats to me: &quot;You're old.&quot; That's all, I'm old.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And yet I'm afraid, as I was at the funeral<br>I went to yesterday.<br>My friend's cold made-up face, granite among its flowers,<br>Her undressed, operated-on, dressed body<br>Were my face and body.<br>As I think of her and I hear her telling me</div><div style="margin:10px 0">How young I seem; I am exceptional;<br>I think of all I have.<br>But really no one is exceptional,<br>No one has anything, I'm anybody,<br>I stand beside my grave<br>Confused with my life, that is commonplace and solitary.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Randall+Jarrell">Randall Jarrell</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=481204" data-title="Next Day de Randall Jarrell" data-description="Moving from Cheer to Joy, from Joy to All,
I take a box
And add it to my wild rice, my Cornish game hens.
The slacked or shorted, basketed, identical
Food-gathering flocks
Are selves I overlook. Wisdom, said William James,

Is learning what to ove..."></div>
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