Hamlet, debating whether or not to be,
Made weak by no ideal to be—free,
Be-thinking what his father would have done,
And with no evidence bright-certain as the sun,
With martial spirit skimpered by fair poetry,
Wracked himself back and forth to do,
Or not to do, then spent his mental power
On words deranging love, Ophelia’s flower,
And, most vacantly, killed that purest one
Who was his sole and whole life’s shining sun.
Imagination may build wings to reach the sky,
But twisted inward blot the best from eye,
Raise lesser things to false importance far,
And slay that only light which is your star.
When Ophelia dies the play has no more force.
Who cares of governments’ mangled course?
Who cares what happens to lost Hamlet then,
Or to what good or bad, indifferent men?
When value number one has gone to death
Why waste we our good time on wasting breath?