Herr MuellerA Poem by GrantBorn in Koblenz, 1801, Sweet as honey and bright as the sun, A shoemaker’s boy his memoir begun, There he’d learn that of a mind so well-versed, Nothing is better, but nothing is worse. Of the questions that plagued him, none were so great As those of existence and those of fate. Before very long, he’d earned his degree. A doctor of medicine at age twenty-three. Of the questions that plagued him, he set them aside. “I’m quite young,” he thought, “and I’ve plenty of time.” He’d vastly improved his station in life. He’d landed a job, and found a good wife. He’d written some books, and paid little mind To the questions that loomed closely behind. But come 26, the questions would strike, Of life and death and fate and the like. Leveled and lost, he’d fallen behind, Ruined and ravaged and wrecked by his mind. It took five months, but he got back to work. The questions, he thought, he’d finally shirked. He’d conducted some research of brilliant design, And became a professor at age 29. But ten years passed and they struck once again. His wife would console him, and so would his friends. “Look, my love, at this life you have made, At all that you’ve done in the past decade.” And so he recovered just as before, Peeling his face from off of the floor. But the questions would strike him again and again, And his glory would pass to other men. The last attack came at an unknown date. But many have said “‘Twas spring, 58.” He was aged 47, and no one said why, But those who knew him, knew how he died. © 2024 GrantReviews
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1 Review Added on June 10, 2024 Last Updated on June 12, 2024 |