More and more lately, as, not even minding the slippages yet, the aches
          and sad softenings,
I settle into my other years, I notice how many of what I once thought
          were evidences of repression,
sexual or otherwise, now seem, in other people anyway, to be varieties of
          dignity, withholding, tact,
and sometimes even in myself, certain patiences I would have once
          called lassitude, indifference,
now seem possibly to be if not the rewards then at least the unsuspected,
          undreamed-of conclusions
to many of the even-then-preposterous self-evolved disciplines, rigors,
          almost mortifications
I inflicted on myself in my starting-out days, improvement days, days
          when the idea alone of psychic peace,
of intellectual, of emotional quiet, the merest hint, would have meant
          inconceivable capitulation.