Old, Learned, Respectable Bald Heads

Old, Learned, Respectable Bald Heads

As I sit at my desk,
Pouring over texts from long ago,
Written by old, respectable learned white men
I find myself at a crossroads.
To be a scholar, or not to be as scholar?
Is this the life of for me?

Am I to join their ranks
And read their books
And learn at their academies
And comment upon their works.

To dream their dreams;
To read their masterpieces;
To contemplate their ideas;
To live as they did.

Is it worth living that life?
Spending many a night dreaming to go
Where fun goes to die and I can find
Enrichment from knowledge
Or where I can find
Truth or
Light or
Flourish Under God’s Light.

I know not if ‘tis the life for me
To be a scholar and study
The works of the ages
And the wisdom of the sages.

Or to be a writer of poetry
Escaping perpetual melancholy
And reinforcing my exulted felicity
Creating verse for all eyes to see

Oh to be an artist with paper as
His canvas and language as his paint
And his pen as his paintbrush-
I have not seen anything so beautiful, heretofore.

To through my mind or live through my quill?
Which way would Eliot walk?