Walt Whitman - Queries to My Seventieth Year lyrics

Approaching, nearing, curious, Thou dim, uncertain spectre—bringest thou life or d**h? Strength, weakness, blindness, more paralysis and heavier? Or placid skies and sun? Wilt stir the waters yet? Or haply cut me short for good? Or leave me here as now, Dull, parrot-like and old, with crack'd voice harping, screeching?