What might once have riveted my Werther self
(In fact, my first real love was, like his, someone
Else's wife), now leaves me unaffected. I've grown
Old. The world doesn't becken. At best, it persists,
Another feature of a life conspicuously lacking in
The young man's storied sturm und drang. An empty
Gaze, a nap, a listless wistfulness for that with neither
Form nor name, are what I know; life after life, I guess.
The passions of the sappy little guy have dissipated
From the husk which carries on, now that he's gone.
Werther may remain alive, but he's no longer young.