I was born on the wrong day, wrong month, year,

Perhaps this century I should not trod.

This day, this age, with its useless dull plod

Holds no rapture in my eye, nor the fear

Of some future place, some unknown, so sheer

The better to this world I would have shod-

Impossibility permitted-God

Forbade that which I may have held so dear.

I don't know what to do; this is useless.

Just dreaming, dreaming that I'm sometime else,

When never will I be but in this place.

Within the world of sleep I should regress,

But for the hand reaching that feels my pulse.

Dreaming, dreaming, stuck with this wrong-timed face.